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THE KING WHO 
WENT ON STRIKE 


7 - 

THE KING WHO 
WENT ON STRIKE 

BY 

PEARSON CHOATE 

Author of “Men Limited: An Impertinence” 

“And those things do best please me 
That befal preposterously.” 

Puck 

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’* 

Act. III. Scene II. 



NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 

1924 








Copyright, 1924 


/ 


By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc. 


PRINTED IN U. S. A. 


VAIL *BALLOU PRESS, INC. 
Binghamton and hew yonk 

MAR 27 *24 J 

©CU^T 7696 


“Is it not strange so few Kings abdicate; and none 
yet heard of has been known to commit suicide? 
Fritz the First, of Prussia, alone tried it, and they cut 
the rope.” 

“The French Revolution, A History.” 
Part I. Book VII. Chapter XI 
Thomas Carlyle 



THE KING WHO 
WENT ON STRIKE 

CHAPTER I 

HE King leant against the stone 
balustrade, which runs round 
the roof of Buckingham Pal¬ 
ace, and looked about him. 
All around him, above him, 
and below him, the night was ablaze with a 
myriad lights. Loyal Londoners, in accord¬ 
ance with their custom, were closing their Cor¬ 
onation celebrations with illuminations, with 
fireworks, and with good-humoured horseplay 
in the crowded streets. In spite of gloomy pre¬ 
dictions to the contrary, the proverbial Coro¬ 
nation weather of the last day or two had not 
failed. A radiant June day had given place 
to a wonderful June night. Here, on the pal¬ 
ace roof, high up above the tumult and the 
shouting the night air was cool and fragrant. 
The King rested his elbows on the broad top 
of the carved stone balustrade. He was very 
weary. But he was glad to be out in the open 

-Cl 3- 











THE KING WHO 


air once again. And he was gladder still, at 
last, to be alone— 

“A tall, fair, goodlooking young man, still 
in the early twenties, with an open, almost 
boyish face”: “A young man of athletic 
build, clean-shaven, and very like his dead 
brother, the Prince, but lacking, perhaps, 
something of the Prince’s personal distinction, 
and charm”: “Thick, fair, curly hair, blue 
eyes, and a happy, smiling mouth”: “A 
typical young English naval officer, with an 
eager, boyish face, unclouded, as yet, by any 
shadow of his high destiny”—it was in 
phrases such as these that the descriptive 
writers in the newspapers had described, more 
or less adequately, the new King’s outward 
appearance. What he was inwardly, what the 
inner man thought, and felt, and suffered, 
was not within their province, or their knowl¬ 
edge. At the moment, his outward appear¬ 
ance was completed by an easy fitting, black, 
smoking jacket, plain evening dress trousers, 
and a pair of shabby dancing pumps, into 
which he had changed immediately after the 
state banquet, which had been the final ordeal 
of his long and exhausting official day. It was 
characteristic of the inner man, about whom 
so little was known, that he should have been 
-C2> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


thus impatient to throw off the gorgeous uni¬ 
form, and the many unearned decorations, 
which the banquet had necessitated. It was 
characteristic of him, too, that he should be 
bareheaded, now, and drawing absently at a 
pipe, which he had forgotten to fill— 

All the crowded events of the long, tense, and 
exhausting Coronation Day which was, at last, 
happily at an end had seemed strangely unreal 
to the King. The slow and stately progress to 
the Abbey in the morning, the huge gilt state 
coach, the team of cream horses, the gold- 
coated powdered footmen, the bodyguard of 
plumed Household Cavalry, the decorated 
streets, the crowds, the wild cheering, the thou¬ 
sand faces, the thousand eyes, his own mechan¬ 
ical bowing, his own mechanical smile; the pro¬ 
tracted, exhausting ceremony in the Abbey, 
the ermine-caped peers and peeresses, the gro¬ 
tesque gorgeously clad officers of state, the tall 
figure of the venerable Archbishop with his 
hands raised in benediction, his own heavy 
royal robes, the Crown, the bursts of music and 
of song, the pealing bells, the brilliant uniforms 
of the soldiery; the streets once again, the 
crowds and the wild cheering, his own mechan¬ 
ical bowing, his own mechanical smile, the heat, 
the glitter and the glare, the tension, the thou- 
-C3> 


THE KING WHO 


sand flushed curious faces, the thousand eyes, 
the slow movement of the coach, the secret, 
hidden, inward fear; the all too short rest in 
the afternoon, with its few minutes of troubled, 
nightmare sleep; the interminable state ban¬ 
quet in the evening, the gold plate, the uni¬ 
forms, the colours, and the lights, the Family, 
strangely subservient, the congratulations, the 
speeches, the homage; the dense crowd round 
the palace after the banquet, his own repeated 
appearance at the huge, open window above the 
main entrance, the night air, the thousand eyes 
yet once again, the cheering, and the lights— 
all these things had been unreal, unbelievable, 
the bewildering phantasmagoria of a fevered 
dream— 

Now, as he leant against the roof balustrade, 
the same sense of unreality which had haunted 
him all day was still with him. 

But he compelled himself to look at the blaz¬ 
ing illuminations, none the less. 

A man could not afford to live, indefinitely, 
in a fevered dream. 

The trees in the densely thronged Mall were 
hung with innumerable, coloured electric lights. 
A blaze of yellow, smokeless flambeaux, on the 
left, marked the line of Carlton House Terrace. 
“God Save the King,” and “God Save King 
-CO 


WENT ON STRIKE 

Alfred the Second”—house after house, in the 
terrace, repeated the loyal prayers in glittering 
letters of fire. The same devices were repro¬ 
duced, in a picturesque setting of crowns and 
flags, on the lavishly illuminated Admiralty 
Arch. Beyond was the glare of Trafalgar 
Square, where the Nelson Column, pricked out 
in red, white, and blue lamps, soared aloft, a 
shaft of vivid colours against the dark blue of 
the night sky. Further away, on the right, the 
familiar, luminous clock face of Big Ben, 
which showed that it was already nearing mid¬ 
night, shone out, brightly, above the golden 
brilliance of Whitehall. Westminster Abbey 
towers were touched with fire. Queen Anne’s 
Mansion was a broad, solid wedge of blazing, 
various colour. Up and down the square 
tower of the Westminister Cathedral ran a 
hand of flame, writing a loyal motto, in 
crabbed, monkish Latin, difficult to translate. 
On the left, beyond the Green Park, shone the 
lights of Piccadilly, where the fronts of the 
clubs vied in patriotic radiance. From the 
Green Park itself, and from Hyde Park, in the 
distance, soared rockets, which burst into 
clusters of red, white, and blue stars, and 
showers of multi-coloured rain. The cheers 
of the crowds, in the parks, and in the streets, 
-C5> 


THE KING WHO 


rose with the rockets, in a regular, muffled 
roar. Overhead, above the lights, above the 
rockets, a score or more of illuminated aero¬ 
planes hummed, diving, nose-spinning, side¬ 
slipping, and looping the loop, with the agility, 
the grace, and the breathless swiftness of the 
aerial acrobats who know not fear. 

“God Save the King,” and “God Save King 
Alfred the Second.” 

The mere repetition of the blazing words im¬ 
pressed them upon the King’s notice. 

Their irony was his second thought. 

Did the people know, the cheering people, far 
down below there, in the crowded parks, and 
illuminated streets, that, stereotyped formulae 
as they were, there was real need, now, for 
those prayers? 

And, if they did know, would they care? 

Save him from his enemies? 

Perhaps. Almost certainly. 

But from himself—an unwilling King? 

A light, night breeze from the west, blew 
softly across the palace roof, rustling the 
silken folds of the Royal Standard, as it hung 
limply against the fifty-foot flagstaff, immedi¬ 
ately above the King’s head. With the quick, 
subconscious instinct of the trained sailor, he 
looked up to see if the flag was in order. To 
-C63- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


be “a sailor, not a Prince” had been, for years, 
his publicly avowed ambition, an ambition 
which had only recently been thwarted. His 
interest in this, no doubt, trivial matter of a 
flag was typical of the lasting impression 
which his long and happy years of naval ser¬ 
vice had left upon his character. In most 
things, small and great, the Navy had taught 
him, the Navy had formed him. 

The flag was correct. The very knots in 
the rope left no loophole for criticism. 

The small, gilt Royal Crown, which nor¬ 
mally surmounted the flagstaff had been re¬ 
moved. In its place a large crown of coloured, 
electric lamps had been erected, as a finishing 
touch to the palace illuminations. Above the 
lights of this crown, the pointed shaft of the 
lightning conductor, which ran up the flagstaff, 
protruded, clearly visible against the night sky. 

The lightning conductor had been left in 
position. 

A slow smile lit up the King’s face, and 
something of his weariness fell from him, 
as he saw the pointed shaft of the lightning 
conductor. 

Here, at last, was reality, presented, para¬ 
doxically enough, in the form of an allegory, 
a symbol. 


-C7> 


THE KING WHO 


The words of the old Duke of Northborough 
came back to the King. 

At the close of one of the earliest of the 
many, long, informal talks, in the course of 
which the old Duke had set himself to explain 
to the young and inexperienced Prince, who 
had been called, so unexpectedly, to the throne, 
a few of the more urgent problems of Govern¬ 
ment, the King had brought the veteran Prime 
Minister up on to the palace roof, to see the 
new roof garden, which was the only innovation 
he had made, so far, in the palace arrange¬ 
ments, an innovation due to his pleasant recol¬ 
lection of nights of shore leave spent in the 
roof gardens of New York, during his service 
with the Atlantic Fleet. The old Duke had 
admired the flowers, and approved the tubbed 
trees; then he had looked up at the flagstaff, 
where the Royal Standard had been flying in 
a noble breeze; the juxtaposition of the pointed 
shaft of the lightning conductor, and the Royal 
Crown, at the top of the flagstaff, had caught 
his eye; and he had called the King’s attention 
to it, at once, with an arresting gesture. 

“It is an allegory, a symbol, sir,” he had said, 
in his vivid, forceful way. “You wear the 
Crown. I am the lightning conductor. It will 
be my duty, and the honour of my life, when 


WENT ON STRIKE 


the storm breaks, to take the full shock of the 
lightning flash, so that the Crown may remain 
on your head, unshaken.” 

There had been no need for the King to ask 
of what impending storm the old Duke spoke. 
From the first, in all his talk, the increasing 
menace of the world-wide revolutionary con¬ 
spiracy had been the veteran statesman’s most 
constant theme. 

“In your grandfather’s time revolution in 
England was impossible, sir. In your father’s 
time it was possible, but unthinkable. If your 
brother had lived, it might have remained un¬ 
thinkable for years, perhaps for the whole of 
his reign.” “Like your father, your brother 
had the secret of arousing personal loyalty. 
The Prince smiled, and men and women 
loved him. For years he had been preparing 
himself, and consolidating his hold on the 
people, making ready for the struggle which 
he saw he must come.” “It is not for me to dis¬ 
guise from you, sir, that your brother’s death 
has given a new impetus to the revolutionary 
movement in this country. A younger son, a 
Prince who never expected, who was never ex¬ 
pected, to reign—against you, sir, the inter¬ 
national revolutionary forces feel that they 
have their first real chance in England. The 
£ 93 - 


THE KING WHO 


Internationalists, and the Communists, on the 
Continent, and the extremists amongst our 
own Labour leaders, are likely to effect a work¬ 
ing agreement. It is necessary that we should 
remember, that it has been by such agree¬ 
ments, that Europe has been swept almost 
clear of Kings, from end to end.” “We 
must be prepared. We are prepared. But it 
is of vital importance that you, sir, should un¬ 
derstand the position. Make no mistake, sir. 
They would haul down your Royal Standard, 
from the flagstaff here, sir, and run up their 
pitiable rag of a Red Flag, in its place.” 

A new understanding of the difficulties that 
his father had faced, of the heavy burden that 
he had borne, for so many years, without com¬ 
plaint, had come to the King, in recent weeks. 
More poignant still was the new understanding 
of, and the new sympathy with, his dead 
brother, the Prince, that the last few weeks 
had brought him. His father had always 
been remote. Between him, and his brother, 
the Prince, there had been real friendship, and 
familiar, easy intercourse, in spite of the 
Prince’s splendid future, in spite of his own fre¬ 
quent absences at sea. But he had not known. 
He had not understood. With a sailor’s con¬ 
temptuous impatience in such matters, he had 
.-C103-. 


WENT ON STRIKE 


always turned an almost deaf ear to the 
Prince’s talk of politics and parties. The 
Prince’s splendid future! And he stood now, 
in the Prince’s place. 

It was the Prince who had urged him to trust, 
and to listen to, the old Duke. 

Once again, the King stood by the bed, in 
his brother’s room, late in the afternoon of the 
day, when the disease, which had stricken the 
Prince so inexplicably, within a few weeks of 
their father’s death, had done its worst, and it 
was known that he, too, must die, die, after all, 
uncrowned. 

Deathly white the Prince lay there, propped 
up in bed, with his eyes closed. 

Outside the sun was setting, and the London 
sparrows were twittering their vesper hymn. 

The blue uniformed nurse bent down over 
the bed, and spoke in the Prince’s ear. 

The Prince opened his eyes, saw him, recog¬ 
nized him, and smiled. 

“They tell me that I have got ‘the route’ 
Alfred,” he whispered painfully. “I am not 
afraid to die. But I would live if I could. I 
know, no one knows as I know, what this will 
mean to you. They tell me I mustn’t talk. I 
can’t talk. 

“The Duke is your man. Trust the Duke! 

<n> 


THE KING WHO 


He will not fail you. He will be your sheet 
anchor. With the Duke to steady the ship, you 
will ride out the storm.” 

An hour later, the Prince lay dead. 

The King flung up his head. 

The Duke had not failed him. 

Many men had mourned the Prince’s death, 
but no man had mourned it, as had the veteran 
Prime Minister. Between the Duke and the 
Prince, it was notorious, there had been a 
friendship, a constant association, personal and 
political, closer than that between many a 
father and son. Politically, the Prince’s death 
must have been a staggering blow to the Duke. 
And yet the wonderful old man had never fal¬ 
tered. Early and late, he had laboured, with 
inexhaustible patience, at times with a sur¬ 
prising freedom, and yet always with a tact 
which made his freedom possible, to place his 
unrivalled knowledge, and his ripe wisdom, un¬ 
touched by party spirit, at the service of a 
new, a young, and an inexperienced King. 

The King was not ungrateful. 

Still leaning wearily as he was against the 
roof balustrade, he turned now, as he thought 
of the old Duke, and looked across the shad¬ 
owed darkness of St. James’s Park, at the 
golden glare thrown up by the illuminations 
-C123- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


in Whitehall. There, in the silent, rather com¬ 
fortless, and closed in house, in Downing 
Street, where he had lived, with hardly a 
break, for so many years, his father’s minister, 
his brother’s friend, the old Duke, even now, 
as likely as not, was hard at work, indomitable, 
tireless, resourceful, sparing neither himself, 
nor his subordinates, so that he, the King, “a 
sailor, not a Prince,” might reign. 

Yes. The lightning conductor was in posi¬ 
tion. 

He, the man who wore the Crown, must 
not fail. 

He must not fail the Duke. 

It was odd, but the thought that he might 
fail to support the Duke, that he might not 
come up to the standard which the Duke might 
set for him, had more weight with him, than 
any thought of the people, of the nation. It 
was an instance of the Duke’s personal mag¬ 
netism, of course. His personal magnetism, 
his dominance, had been talked about for years. 
Did the Duke dominate him? No. But the 
Duke was a living, forceful personality, a man, 
a strong man. The people, the nation—well, 
they were only phantoms; they were the thou¬ 
sand, flushed, curious faces; the thousand eyes; 
the cheering crowds, far away down there, in 

< 13 > 


THE KING WHO 


the darkness, in the crowded parks and illumi¬ 
nated streets below. 

It was, in a sense, a triumph, or at least, a 
notable success, for the Duke, that he, the 
King, had been crowned; that the day had 
passed without hostile demonstrations, with¬ 
out a single regrettable incident. What re¬ 
ward could he give, what return could he make, 
to the old statesman, for his ungrudging, tire¬ 
less service? The Duke was his servant. In 
intimate, familiar talk, he never failed to call 
him “sir.” The Duke must be his friend. His 
friend? A King could have no friends. A 
man apart, isolated, lonely, and remote, as his 
father had always been, a King was condemned 
to live alone. 

A sudden, unbearable sense of loneliness, a 
terror of himself, a terror of this new, isolated, 
remote life, in which he was to be denied even 
the poor palliative of friendship, swept over 
the King. He had longed to be alone. He 
had come up, out here, on to the palace roof, 
to be alone. He had been eager to escape 
from the curious faces, from the thousand eyes. 
But now he longed for human companionship, 
for human sympathy, for human hands. 

“Judith!” 


-DO- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


The name rose to the King’s lips, unsought, 
unbidden. 

Judith, tall and slender, with her deep, 
dark, mysterious eyes, and her crown of jet 
black hair; Judith, with her cheeks flushed 
with pleasure, her eyes aglow, and her hand 
stretched out to him in joyous welcome—the 
King saw, and felt, her bodily presence, as 
in a vision, and his loneliness, and his terror, 
his weariness, and his fever, fell from him. 

He must go to Judith. 

It would be dangerous. It was always dan¬ 
gerous. It would be more dangerous, tonight, 
than ever before. But he would go. He must 
go. All day he had smiled, and bowed, and 
posed, for the multitude, playing his part in 
the gorgeous, public pageantry, which the mul¬ 
titude loved, an actor playing his part, an actor, 
the servant of the public. Surely, now, he 
might wrest a few brief hours, from the night, 
for himself? 

It was a long time, a week or more, since he 
had seen Judith. 

A few brief hours with Judith, a few brief 
hours of rest, of rural peace, and quiet talk; 
a romp with the Imps, who would be fast 
asleep now, tucked up in their cots, each clutch- 
<IS> 


THE KING WHO 


ing some cherished toy, some strange, woolly 
animal, or some dearly prized, deadly instru¬ 
ment of mimic war, but who would awake, 
with their prattle, like the birds, at dawn; a 
few minutes of Uncle Bond’s diverting non¬ 
sense, about the next instalment of his forth¬ 
coming serial, and the dire distresses he had 
invented for his latest business girl heroine—a 
few brief hours, so spent, would bring him back 
to the palace, refreshed and strengthened, 
ready to shoulder, once again, the heavy bur¬ 
den of his isolation, the heavy burden which 
seemed now too heavy to be borne. 

Yes. Late as it was, he would go to Judith. 
A night visit? It would be after one o’clock 
in the morning, when he arrived. Would 
Judith mind? Surely not! Judith and he 
were outside conventions. 

With the quick, impulsive movement of the 
man who puts an end to hesitation, the King 
swung round from the stone balustrade, crossed 
the roof, and so passed, without another glance 
at the blazing Coronation illuminations, or at 
the night sky, down the broad, wrought-iron 
staircase which led from the roof into the 
palace. 


-C16> 


CHAPTER II 



IN the anteroom to his own newly 
decorated suite of rooms, the 
King found two of his valets 
still on duty. One of them was 
Smith, the rubicund, grizzled 


old sailor, who had been his servant in the 
Navy. Dismissing the other man with a ges¬ 
ture, the King beckoned to Smith, and entered 
his dressing room. 

“I do not want to be disturbed, in the morn¬ 


ing, until I ring my bell, Smith,” he announced. 
“I shall probably go out into the garden for a 
breath of fresh air, last thing. See that the 
door into the garden is left open. That is 
all now. Good-night.” 

Smith withdrew, at once, with the bob of 
his bullet-shaped head, which was the nearest 
approach he could make to the bow required 
by etiquette. 

Left alone, the King glanced round the dress¬ 


ing room. 

Of all the rooms in the palace which he 
used habitually, this room had become the 
-C173- 











THE KING WHO 


most distasteful to the King. The massive, 
old-fashioned, mahogany furniture, the heavy 
curtains drawn right across the windows, the 
thick-piled carpet, and the softly shaded lights, 
in the room, oppressed him, not so much be¬ 
cause of what they were in themselves, as be¬ 
cause of what they were associated with, al¬ 
ready, in his own mind. It was here that he 
dressed for Court functions. It was here that 
he dressed, three or four times a day, not for 
his own pleasure and convenience, but “suitably 
for the occasion.” 

A masculine doll. A male mannequin. A 
popinjay. 

But he was going to dress to please himself, 
now, anyway. 

Moving swiftly about the room, he pro¬ 
ceeded to ransack drawers, and to fling open 
wardrobe doors, as he searched for a particular 
blue serge suit, of which the Royal staff of 
valets strongly disapproved. 

At last he found the suit he sought. 

A few minutes later, he had effected, un¬ 
aided, a complete change of toilet. 

The blue serge suit, instinct with the Navy 
style that was so much to his mind, together 
with the grey felt hat, and the light dust coat, 
which he selected, made an odd, and subtle, 
-C183- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


difference in his appearance. Before, even 
in the easy undress of his smoking jacket, he 
had been—the King. Now he was, in every 
detail, merely a young naval officer in mufti, 
rejoicing in shore leave. 

Looking at himself in the huge, full-length 
mirror which stood immediately in front of the 
heavily curtained windows, the King approved 
this result. 

The young naval officer in mufti, who looked 
back at the King out of the cunningly lighted 
mirror, tall, fair, and clean-shaven, had re¬ 
tained much of the unconscious pride of youth. 
The face was, as yet, only lightly marked by 
the lines, the thoughtful frown, and the dark 
shadows, which are the insignia of a heavier 
burden, of a greater responsibility, and of a 
more constant anxiety, and care, than any 
known at sea. The mouth and chin were pro¬ 
nounced and firm, moulded by the habit of 
command. The lips were a trifle full, and not 
untouched by passion. A student of that 
facial character, which all men, princes and 
peasants alike, must carry about with them, 
wherever they go, would have said that this 
young man had a will of his own, which might 
be expressed by rash and impetuous action. 
The brow was broad and high. This was a 


THE KING WHO 


young man capable of thought, and of emo¬ 
tion. Something of the healthy tan, which 
long exposure to wind and weather leaves, still 
lingered on the cheeks, but a slight puffiness 
under the tired blue eyes, told of weariness, and 
of flagging physical condition. 

“A breath of Judith’s country air will cer¬ 
tainly do me good. It will freshen me up,” 
the King muttered. 

Swinging round from the mirror, he crossed 
the room, to the door, and switched off all the 
lights. Then he opened the door. The long 
corridor outside, which led from his suite of 
rooms to the central landing, and so to the main 
staircase in the palace, was still brilliantly 
lit. Closing the dressing room door behind 
him, the King slipped quickly down the cor¬ 
ridor. Avoiding the central landing, and the 
main staircase, which lay to his right, he turned 
to the left, up a short passage, which brought 
him to the head of a private staircase, which 
was strictly reserved for his personal use. 
This staircase led down to the ground floor of 
the palace, and ended in a small, palm and 
orange tree decorated lounge, half vestibule, 
and half conservatory, which had been a 
favourite retreat of his father. A glass door 
opened out of the lounge into the palace gar- 
-C20> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


den. This door, as he had directed, had been 
left open. Quickly descending the staircase, 
the King passed through the lounge, out by 
the open door, into the garden. 

A sharp glance, first to the right, and then 
to the left, assured him that he was unobserved. 
By his order, the posts of the military guard, 
and the beats of the police, on duty round the 
palace, had been altered recently, so that he 
could use this door untrammelled by their 
compliments. An unmistakable impatience 
with even necessary observation of his per¬ 
sonal movements had already become known as 
one of the new King’s most pronounced char¬ 
acteristics, and the military, and the police 
authorities, alike, had done their best to meet 
his wishes in the matter, although his wishes 
had added greatly to their difficulties. 

The palace garden was full of the fragrance 
of the wonderful summer night. The west 
breeze blew softly along the paths, and rustled 
amongst the innumerable leaves of the over¬ 
hanging trees. A few minutes of brisk walk¬ 
ing led the King through the darkness of the 
shrubberies, across the deserted lawns, and 
past the shining, light-reflecting water of the 
lake, to the boundary wall at the far end of the 
garden. 


-C21> 


THE KING WHO 


A small, old, and formerly little used wooden 
door in this wall was his objective. 

Lately, by his order, this door had been re¬ 
painted, and fitted with a new lock. One or 
two members of the palace household staff 
were housed in Lower Grosvenor Place, the 
thoroughfare on to which the wall abutted. It 
was, ostensibly, in order that these trust¬ 
worthy and discreet members of the household 
staff might be able to pass in and out of the 
door, unchallenged, and so use the short cut 
through the garden to the palace, that the King 
had considerately directed that the lock on the 
door should be renewed, and that new keys 
should be distributed. 

It was one of these new keys which he now 
produced from his own pocket, and, after a 
hurried glance behind him to assure himself 
that he was still unobserved, fitted into the 
lock. 

The lock worked smoothly. 

The door opened inwards. 

The King stepped out on to the pavement 
of Lower Grosvenor Place. 

The door, operated by a spring, closed 
silently behind him. 

Lower Grosvenor Place, normally a quiet 
and deserted thoroughfare was, tonight, for 
< 22 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


once, thronged with people. A cheering, sing¬ 
ing rollicking crowd, the backwash of the 
larger crowds, which had been attracted to the 
palace, and to the display of fireworks in the 
parks, had taken possession of the roadway. 
For a moment, the noise of the crowd, and the 
lights of the street, coming so abruptly after 
the silence, and the secluded darkness of the 
garden, disconcerted the King. Next moment, 
smiling a little at the thought of his own 
bizarre position, he darted into the crowd, 
and began to work his way across the road. 

Inevitably jostled, and pushed, by the 
crowd, he made slow progress. 

Suddenly, his progress was arrested alto¬ 
gether. 

A little company of West End revellers, half 
a dozen youthful dandies from the clubs, and 
as many daringly dressed women, who were 
moving down the centre of the road, with their 
arms linked, singing at the top of their voices, 
deliberately intercepted him, and circling 
swiftly round him, held him prisoner. 

“Where are your colours, old man?” one of 
the women demanded, in an affected, provoc¬ 
ative drawl. She was young, and, in spite of 
her artificial complexion, and dyed eyebrows, 
she still retained a suggestion of prettiness, and 
-C23> 


THE KING WHO 

even of freshness. “Here! This is what you 
want!” 

As she spoke, she caught hold of the lapel 
of the King’s coat, and pinned to it a large 
rosette of red, white, and blue ribbons. 

“There! That looks better,” she declared. 
“You don’t want people to think you’re one 
of these Communist cads, and in favour of a 
revolution, do you?” 

The King laughed merrily. 

That he, the King, should be suspected of 
being in favour of revolution struck him as 
irresistibly absurd. Then the second thought 
which is so often nearer to the truth than the 
first, supervened. After all, was the idea so 
absurd? Was he not—an unwilling King? 
Had he not been increasingly conscious, of late, 
of a thought lurking at the back of his mind, 
that he, of all men, had, perhaps, least to lose, 
and most to gain, in the welter and chaos of 
revolution? What would he lose? The in¬ 
tolerable burden of his isolation: the responsi¬ 
bility, and the exacting demands of the great 
position, into which he had been thrust so un¬ 
expectedly, and so much against his will. 
What would he gain? Liberty, Equality, 
Fraternity! The revolutionary slogan voiced his 
*C24> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


own personal needs. His laughter died away. 

Happily, a precocious, fair-haired youth, 
who was leaning on the shoulder of the rosette- 
distributing girl, broke the awkward little 
silence which ensued. 

“Chuck it, Doris! Can’t you see he’s one 
of us?” he remarked. “He’s got Navy writ¬ 
ten all over him.” 

And he nodded to the King, as to a brother 
officer. 

“Mind your own business, Bobbie, and I’ll 
mind mine,” Doris drawled, unperturbed. 
“He’s a nice boy, but he’d forgotten his 
rosette. No man, who isn’t wearing the right 
colours, is going to pass me by, tonight, un¬ 
challenged.” 

The King pulled himself together with an 
effort. 

“But now that I am wearing the right col¬ 
ours, you will let me pass?” he suggested. 
“I am in rather a hurry.” 

Bobbie promptly dragged the laughing and 
protesting Doris to one side, and so left the 
road clear for the King. 

“Pass, friend!” Bobbie announced. “All’s 
well!” 

The King dived hastily, once again, into the 
-C25> 


THE KING WHO 


crowd. A sudden, and curiously belated, fear 
of recognition, here in the immediate vicinity 
of the palace, lent wings to his feet. No doubt 
the reckless audacity of his excursion almost 
precluded the possibility of recognition. And 
yet thousands of these people had seen him, 
at close quarters, only a few hours ago. 

So they knew about the impending storm, 
and they were already taking sides. He 
looked at the rollicking crowd which surged 
about him, now, with new interest. Red, 
white, and blue rosettes, similar to the one 
which was pinned to his own coat, were being 
worn everywhere. The right colours appeared 
to be popular. In the elaborate, secret, pro¬ 
tective schemes, lettered for code purposes, in 
the Greek alphabet, from Alpha to Gamma, 
which the old Duke of Northborough had laid 
before him, to demonstrate the Cabinet’s readi¬ 
ness for every eventuality, the loyalty of the 
people had no place. Might not that loyalty 
render the old Duke’s schemes unnecessary? 
But the old Duke wanted, he seemed almost 
anxious, to force a fight. And the old Duke 
was, of course, right. 

By this time, the King had succeeded in 
working his way across the road. He turned 
now, mechanically to his left, down a quiet, 
-C 26 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 

side street, which ended in a cul-de-sac, but 
afforded, on the right, an entrance to one of 
those odd, shut in havens of coach-houses and 
stables, which are to be found all over the 
West End of London, tucked away behind the 
great houses, from which they usually take 
their directory title, with the addition of that 
admirably significant word, mews. Here, in 
a small, lock-up garage, which he had con¬ 
trived to rent in the name of a youthful mem¬ 
ber of his personal, secretarial staff, the King 
kept a two-seated, powerfully engined, motor 
car. Geoffrey Blunt, the nominal tenant of 
the garage, a light-hearted but discreet, cadet 
of a good house, had also lent his name for 
the purchase of the car. In recognition of 
Blunt’s complaisance in the matter, the King 
had allowed him to accompany him in one or 
two harmless Caliph Haroun A1 Raschid night 
interludes, in which the car had figured; but 
Blunt, as Vizier, had no idea that the King, his 
Caliph, used the car, as now, for solitary 
excursions. 

The police constable on the beat happened 
to be testing, with his bull’s-eye lantern in ac¬ 
tion, the fastenings of the adjacent coach¬ 
houses and stables, in the dimly lit mews, 
when the King arrived at the garage. Recog- 
-C27> 


THE KING WHO 


nizing in the King, as he thought, a resident 
in one of the neighbouring houses, the con¬ 
stable saluted him respectfully, and helped 
him to open the garage doors, and run out the 
car. 

“You’ll find the traffic difficult tonight, sir, 
I’m thinking,” he remarked, with a hint of a 
London tamed Irish brogue. “They turned 
the people out of the parks, when the fire¬ 
works finished, a full half hour ago, but, bless 
you, they are in no hurry to go home. Well, 
it’s one night in a lifetime, as you might say, 
isn’t it, sir? And, beyond holding up the traf¬ 
fic, there’s no harm in the people—they’re just 
lively, that’s all. There’ll be a good many of 
them will lie in late, when they do get to bed, 
in the morning, I’m thinking. But the tiredest 
man, in all London, this night, and in the whole 
Empire, too, if it comes to that, I should think 
must be the King himself, God bless him! 
Did you get a good view of him, yourself, sir? 
I was in duty in Whitehall for the procession, 
and barring a yard or two, I was as close to 
him then, as I am, now, to you. As fine, and 
upstanding a young fellow, as you could wish 
to see, he is, too, and as like his poor dead 
brother, the Prince, God rest his soul! as two 


WENT ON STRIKE 


peas. But he looked tired, I thought. I hope 
they won’t work him too hard, at first. He’s 
only a young man still, and he’s got his troub¬ 
les before him, they say, although to look at 
the people, tonight, you wouldn’t think so, 
would you? But give him his chance, and 
he’ll do as well as his brother, the Prince, I 
say, for all that he’s a sailor. I’m an old 
Guardsman, myself, sir, the same as the Prince 
was, but, after all, it’s time you had your turn, 
in the Senior Service, isn’t it, sir?” 

Busy putting on the thick leather motor 
coat, and adjusting the goggles, which he kept 
stored in the car, the King listened to the 
constable’s garrulous, friendly talk with rich 
amusement, not untouched by a more serious 
interest. He almost wished that he could re¬ 
veal his real identity to the man, and then 
shake hands with him. Surely the loyalty 
of the people had been underestimated? This 
garrulous police constable had a juster ap¬ 
preciation, and a more sympathetic under¬ 
standing, of the difficulties and the dangers of 
his position, than he had ever imagined pos¬ 
sible. 

With the constable’s assistance the King 
closed, and re-locked the garage doors. Then 
-C29> 


THE KING WHO 


he slipped a handful of loose silver into the 
man’s not too ready palm, and sprang up into 
his seat at the steering wheel of the car. 

“Liquidate that in drinking to the King’s 
health, constable,” he directed, as he started 
the car. “Drink it to the frustration of all 
the King’s enemies.” 

All the King’s enemies? His worst enemy? 
Himself? 

The man’s reply was drowned by the throb¬ 
bing beat of the powerful engine. 

A moment later, the car leapt forward, out 
of the dimly lit mews, swung up the quiet side 
street, beyond, and so passed into the densely 
thronged roadway in Lower Grosvenor Place. 

The police constable’s prediction as to the 
difficulties of the traffic proved more than 
justified. In Grosvenor Place, the King found 
that he could only advance at a snail’s pace, 
sounding his siren continuously. Over and 
over again, he had hurriedly to apply all his 
brakes. The crowd, singing, cheering, and 
rollicking, had taken complete possession of 
the roadway, and ignored the approach of all 
vehicles of whatsoever kind. Fellow motor¬ 
ists, in like case with himself, grinned at the 
King, in friendly, mutual commiseration. For 
his part, it was with difficulty, that he re- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


strained his impatience, and kept his temper. 
He was still far too close to the palace for his 
peace of mind. 

At Hyde Park Corner, the police, mounted 
and on foot, had contrived to maintain a nar¬ 
row fairway, which made real, although still 
slow, progress through the locked traffic pos¬ 
sible. But in Park Lane, the crowd had it all 
their own way again, spread out across the 
road, and indulging in rough horse-play, as 
nearly out of hand as the London crowd ever 
permits itself to go. Happily, by the Marble 
Arch, the road cleared once more. In Oxford 
Street, in spite of the brilliant illuminations 
of the famous shops and stores, and the huge 
crowds which they had attracted there, the 
King found that he could slightly increase his 
speed. When he swung, at last, into Totten¬ 
ham Court Road, and so headed the car di¬ 
rectly north, the traffic, by comparison with 
that through which he had just passed, seemed 
almost normal. Free now from the necessity 
of extra vigilance, and only occasionally called 
upon to sound his siren, or to apply his brakes, 
he was able to open out the car considerably, 
and settle himself more comfortably at the 
steering wheel. 


'-C31>' 


CHAPTER III 


T was a wonderful summer 
night. Here, as the car ran out 
into the quieter, less crowded, 
and more humbly illuminated 
area of the inner suburbs, the 
night reasserted itself. Rising late, above the 
roofs and twisted chimney pots, a large, round, 
golden moon hung low in the dark blue sky. 
The rush of air, stirred by the throbbing car, 
was cool and fresh. Naturally, and inevitably, 
the King’s thoughts turned now, once again, 
to Judith. 

It was on just such a wonderful summer 
night, as this, in early June, a year ago, that 
he had first seen Judith. 

On that memorable night, the King had 
driven alone, out of London, late at night, just 
as he was driving now, at the end of a fort¬ 
night’s leave, which he had spent incognito, 
in town. Soon after he had run through the 
fringe of the outer suburbs, which he was 
even then entering, with four hundred odd 
miles of road between him and the Naval Base 
-C32> 














WENT ON STRIKE 

in Scotland, where he was due to rejoin his 
ship, and with barely time to make them good, 
the car he was driving had developed engine 
trouble. A few minutes of frenzied tinkering 
had set the car going again, but the engine had 
only served to carry him well clear of the town, 
out into the sleeping countryside, when it had 
failed, once more, this time completely, and he 
had found himself stranded, at the side of the 
lonely, deserted, country road, the victim of a 
permanent breakdown. 

The King smiled to himself, now, as he re¬ 
called his reckless, humorous appreciation of 
that situation. In those days, “a sailor, not 
a Prince,” he had had a light heart. Nothing 
had been able to disturb his equanimity for 
long. 

Abandoning the broken down car, almost 
at once, at the side of the road, he had set 
out, adventurously, on foot, to look for suc¬ 
cour. The night had been, then, as now, cool, 
fragrant, and moonlit. Soon a narrow, wind¬ 
ing, wooded lane, on the left of the road, had 
attracted him. Turning down this lane, he 
had followed its twisting, tree-shadowed course, 
for over a mile or more, until, suddenly, he 
had come upon the small lodge, and open car¬ 
riage gate, of an isolated country house, which 
-C33> 


THE KING WHO 


stood, a little back from the road, surrounded 
by tall trees. 

The short, moonlit drive, where the rhodo¬ 
dendron bushes and the laburnum trees were in 
full blossom, had led him to the front of the 
silent, darkened house. 

The King remembered vividly the odd sense 
of impending romance, the little thrill of ex- 
citment, and of expectancy, with which he had 
rung the front door bell. 

A short pause had ensued, a period of 
waiting. 

And then he had heard a movement on his 
right, and he had turned, and he had seen 
Judith—seen Judith, for the first time. 

She had slipped through the open window 
door, on his right, on to the verandah, which 
ran all round the shadowy house, and she had 
stood there, close beside him, tall and slender, 
surrounded by the ghostly white blossoms of 
the clematis creeper, which covered the ver¬ 
andah pillars and rail—Judith with her cheeks 
delicately flushed, her deep, dark, mysterious 
eyes aglow, and her wealth of jet black hair 
knotted loosely at her neck, Judith clad in a 
Japanese kimono of gorgeous colours, from 
under which peeped little wisps of spotless 
white linen, and filmy lace. 


WENT ON STRIKE 


The King laughed softly to himself, as he 
recalled that it was he, and not Judith, who 
had been shy and embarrassed, that it was 
he, and not Judith, who had blushed and stam¬ 
mered—until Judith had come to his rescue, 
understanding and accepting his incoherent 
apologies and explanations, almost before he 
had uttered them, and taking absolute com¬ 
mand of him, and of the whole delightfully 
bizarre situation from that moment— 

The necessity of avoiding a couple of belated 
country carts, moving slowly forward towards 
Covent Garden, at this point, broke abruptly 
into the King’s reverie. The powerfully en¬ 
gined car was running smoothly, and at a high 
speed now, along the level surface of one of 
the outer suburban tramway tracks— 

It was Judith who had promptly roused old 
Jevons, the gardener, and sent him off, post 
haste, to take charge of the derelict car. It 
was Judith who, greatly daring, had penetrated 
into the jealously guarded, literary night se¬ 
clusion of Uncle Bond, on the upper floor of 
the silent, darkened house, and had compelled 
the little man to leave his latest business girl 
heroine, in the middle of the next instalment of 
his new serial, although that instalment was, as 
usual, already overdue, and come downstairs, 
-C35^ 


THE KING WHO 


urbane and chuckling, his round, double- 
chinned, and spectacled face wreathed in 
smiles, to entertain an unknown, and youthful 
stranger, as if his midnight intrusion was the 
most natural thing in the world. 

It was Judith, familiar with the way that 
they have in the Navy, who had understood, 
from the first, the vital necessity of his re¬ 
joining his ship in time. It was Judith who 
had routed out time-tables, and looked up 
trains, while he and Uncle Bond had smoked 
and discussed the situation at large, and had 
discovered that he still might be able to catch 
the Scottish Mail, at some railway junction in 
the Midlands, of which he had never heard. 

It was Judith who had packed off the at once 
enthusiastic Uncle Bond to the garage to turn 
out his own brand new Daimler. It was Judith 
who had insisted that they must make a hur¬ 
ried, and informal, but wholly delightful picnic 
meal. It was Judith who had slipped out, 
while Uncle Bond and he ate and drank, and 
put his kit, which the careful Jevons had 
brought from the broken down car to the house 
for safe custody, into the Daimler. Finally, 
it was Judith who had given them their march¬ 
ing orders, and their route, and had stood on 
the verandah, and waved her hand to them, 
-C36> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


in friendly farewell, when Uncle Bond had 
started the Daimler, and the huge car had 
swept down the drive, out into the sleeping 
countryside. 

Of the wild drive that had followed, half 
way across England, through the wonderful 
summer night, the King had now, as he had 
had at the time, only a hazy, confused im¬ 
pression—a hazy, confused impression of Uncle 
Bond, at his side, crouched over the steering 
wheel of the huge Daimler, driving with a reck¬ 
less audacity more suited to the commander 
of a destroyer, or of a submarine, than to a 
mere retailer of grotesquely improbable tales, 
of Uncle Bond talking incessantly as he drove, 
and chuckling delightedly, as he gave a free 
rein to the fantastic flights of his characteristi¬ 
cally extravagant humour. 

Where, and when, he had caught the night 
mail, the King had still no clear idea. A 
blurred vision of Uncle Bond, racing at his 
side, down a long, dimly lit railway platform, 
and throwing his last portmanteau in, after 
him, through the window of the already mov¬ 
ing train, was all that remained with him, of 
the scene at the station. 

And then the train had thundered on, 
through the sleeping countryside, and he had 


THE KING WHO 


been alone, at last, in the darkness, in the dark¬ 
ness in which, for hours, he had seen only 
Judith’s beautiful, vivid face, while the train 
had thundered in his ears, only Judith’s 
name— 

By this time, the powerfully engined car had 
run clear of the outer suburban tramway 
track, and was rushing through the semi-rural 
area of market gardens, and scattered villas, 
where the town first meets, and mingles with, 
the country, on the north side of London. 
Coronation illuminations had now been left 
far behind. Soon even the last of the long 
chain of lamps provided by the public light¬ 
ing system was passed. It was by the light 
thrown on to the road, by the glaring head¬ 
lights on the throbbing car, and by the softer 
light of the moon, that the King had now to do 
his driving— 

From the first he had known that Judith, and 
Uncle Bond, could never be as other people to 
him. It was this knowledge which had warned 
him not to betray his real identity. From the 
first, it had seemed of vital importance to him, 
that no shadow of his Royal rank should be 
allowed to mar the delightful spontaneity of 
his intercourse with these charming, uncon¬ 
ventional people, who, looking upon him as 


WENT ON STRIKE 


merely a young, naval officer in trouble, had 
at once placed all their resources at his dis¬ 
posal, as if he had been an old and intimate 
friend. It was this knowledge which had 
prompted him, when he came to telegraph to 
Uncle Bond, to report his successful rejoin¬ 
ing of his ship, to sign the telegram with his 
favourite incognito name, Alfred York. That 
he should have been in a position to telegraph 
to Uncle Bond was only one of the many lesser 
miracles of that wholly miraculous night. At 
some point in their wild drive, Uncle Bond had 
slipped his visiting card into his hand, and 
had contrived to make him understand, in spite 
of his dreamlike abstraction, that, while he was 
known to his admiring public as “Cynthia St. 
Claire,” the notorious serial writer, he was 
known to his friends as plain James Bond, and 
that he, and his niece Judith, would be glad to 
hear that he had escaped a court-martial. 

Looking back at it all, now, with the wonder 
that never failed him when he thought of 
Judith, it seemed to the King that the miracles 
of that first memorable night, twelve months 
ago, had merely been the prelude to a whole se¬ 
quence of other, and far greater, miracles. 
When leave came his way once again, it had 
seemed only natural to him that he should run 
*C39> 


THE KING WHO 


out to see Judith and Uncle Bond, to thank 
them for their kindness which had included the 
salving, and the temporary storing of the 
derelict car. But that Judith and Uncle Bond 
should have welcomed him so warmly, and 
pressed him to repeat his visit, whenever he 
happened to be passing through town, that 
had been—a miracle! Again, it was only 
natural that he should have taken advantage of 
their invitation, and that he should have fallen 
into the habit of running out to see them, when¬ 
ever he could snatch a few brief hours from the 
exacting demands of his semi-official life. But 
that Judith, and Uncle Bond, should have 
thrown open their house to him, so soon, with¬ 
out question, and made their home, his home, 
that had been—a miracle! That he should 
have been able to keep his frequent visits to, 
and his increasing intimacy with, Judith and 
Uncle Bond a secret, for nearly twelve months, 
was a miracle. That in all that time, Judith 
and Uncle Bond should never have suspected 
his real identity, never penetrated his incog¬ 
nito, was a greater miracle. But that his 
friendship with Judith should have remained 
unspoilt, innocent, that was the greatest mir¬ 
acle of all. 

It was Judith who had wrought this last, 
*C40> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


greatest miracle of all. It was Judith who had 
made their friendship what it was. Somehow, 
from the first, she seemed to have been able 
to shut out, or, at the worst, to ward off, from 
their intimacy, all dangerous provocations. It 
was as if she had drawn a white line round her¬ 
self, even in her thoughts, past which neither 
he, nor she, could enter. Uncle Bond, most 
wise and tactful of hosts, had helped. And 
the Imps, Judith’s boys, had helped too. 

Somehow, Judith and the Imps, Button, so 
called because of his button mouth, and Bill, 
cherubic and chubby, had always been in¬ 
separably associated in his mind. Almost 
from the first, he must have known that Judith, 
young as she was, was a widow. But it was 
only lately that he had learnt that her husband 
had been a sailor like himself, a sailor who 
had served with distinction, and lost his life, 
in the Pacific War, the war which he had 
missed himself, to his own everlasting regret, 
by a few bare weeks of juniority— 

By this time, the throbbing car was sweep¬ 
ing down the opening stretch of the Great 
North Road, out into the real country. More 
as a matter of custom, than of conscious 
thought, the King slowed down the car. It 
had become his habit on these occasions, that 
-C41> 


THE KING WHO 


he should slacken his speed, when he had at 
last successfully escaped from the town, so that 
he could attune his mind to his surroundings, 
and savour to the full his eager anticipation 
of Judith’s joyous welcome. 

Suddenly, the ghostly, white painted figure 
of a signpost, for which he always kept an eye 
open, flashed into his view, on the left of the 
road. 

Once, on a winter evening of fog-thickened 
darkness, when he had been driving out to see 
Judith, as he was driving now, the King had 
grown uncertain of his route. Coming to this 
signpost, he had been glad to halt, to verify his 
position. Clambering up the post, with the 
ready agility of the sailor, he had struck a 
match, to discover that the signpost had been 
used, by some unknown humorist, to perpe¬ 
trate a jest, with which he had found himself in 
instant, serious, and wholehearted sympathy. 
The ordinary place names had been obliter¬ 
ated on the signpost fingers. In lieu of them 
had been painted, in rude, black letters, on the 
finger pointing to London, “To Hades,” and, 
on the opposite finger, pointing north, out into 
the open country, “To Paradise.” 

The King headed the car now “To Para¬ 
dise,” with an uplifting of the heart, which 
-C42:}- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


never failed him, on this portion of the road. 

A little later, he became aware that he was 
passing the site of his former breakdown, the 
breakdown which had first led him, a year ago, 
to Judith. 

He knew then that he had run out of Mid¬ 
dlesex into Hertfordshire. 

Soon the familiar turning of the narrow, tree 
shadowed lane, on the left of the road, came 
into view. Swinging the car into the lane, the 
King, once again, slackened his speed. He 
drove now with special care. It had become 
part of a charming game, that he and Judith 
played, that he should try to drive down the 
lane, and up to the house, without her hearing 
his approach. Somehow, he hardly ever won. 
Somehow, Judith was always on the alert, al¬ 
ways expecting him. 

But tonight, it almost seemed, in view of the 
unusual lateness of his arrival, as if he might 
score one of his rare successes. The car ran 
smoothly, and all but silently, down the narrow 
lane. At the bottom, at the house, the car¬ 
riage gate, as usual, stood wide open. In the 
moonlit drive, the rhododendron bushes and 
the laburnum trees were in full blossom, just 
as they had been on that memorable first 
night, a year ago. The King drove straight up 
-C43> 


THE KING WHO 


the drive, and round the side of the silent, 
darkened house, to the garage beyond. The 
garage door, like the carriage gate, stood wide 
open. Here, in Paradise, apparently, there 
was no need to guard against motor thieves. 

The King turned the car, and backed it into 
the garage, beside Uncle Bond’s huge Daimler. 
The silence which followed his shutting off of 
the engine, was profound, the essential night 
silence of the country. Flinging off his thick, 
leather motor coat, his hat, and his goggles, he 
tossed them, one after the other, into the car. 
Then he left the garage, and moved quickly 
back round the side of the house, treading, 
whenever possible, on the grassy borders of the 
garden flower beds, lest the sound of his foot¬ 
steps should reach Judith, and so warn her of 
his approach. 


r -C44>' 


CHAPTER IV 


N a bush, close up to the house, 
a nightingale was in full song. 
Further away, from one of the 
trees beyond the shadowy gar¬ 
den lawn, another nightingale 
replied. It was as if the two birds were singing 
against each other for mastery, pouring out, in 
a wild, throbbing ecstasy, the one after the 
other, twin cascades of lovely, liquid, matchless 
notes. 

Judith was sitting on the moonlit verandah. 

The King laughed softly to himself, when he 
saw her. 

As usual, he had lost! 

She rose to her feet, to receive him, as he ap¬ 
proached, and so stood, tall and slender, just 
as she had stood on that first, memorable 
night, a year ago, framed in the ghostly white 
blossoms of the clematis creeper, which cov¬ 
ered the verandah pillars and rail. She was 
wearing an evening gown of some material in 
white satin which had a glossy sheen that 
shone almost as brightly as the moonlight 
against the dark background of the silent 
-C45> 


m 




a 













THE KING WHO 


house. She was bareheaded, and the light, 
night breeze had ruffled one or two tresses of 
her luxuriant jet black hair. Her beautiful, 
vivid face was flushed. Her deep, dark, mys¬ 
terious eyes were aglow. Her lips were parted 
in a little smile of mingled humour and tri¬ 
umph. 

“I knew that you would come tonight,” she 
said. 

The King stepped up on to the verandah, to 
her side. 

“I had to come,” he confessed. 

“It is a long time, a week, ten days, since 
you were here.” 

“I am not my own master. I have been— 
very busy. They have given me—promotion! ” 

“The Service! Always the Service!” Judith 
cried. 

“It is the King’s Service,” the King replied. 

“I know! I would not have it otherwise, 
even if I could,” Judith murmured. “I am 
glad, and proud, that you have been very 
busy; that they have given you—promotion; 
that you serve—the King! And, tonight, you 
are wearing his colours?” 

As she spoke, she put out her hand, and 
deftly rearranged the long ribbons of the red, 
white, and blue rosette, which the audacious 
-C46> 


WENT ON STRIKE 

Doris had pinned to his coat, earlier in the 
night. 

“And, tonight, I am wearing his colours, 1 ” 
the King replied. “When the storm, that they 
say is coming, really breaks, the King will need 
all his friends.” 

With a quick, abrupt movement, which 
seemed to indicate a sudden change of mood, 
Judith laid her hands on his shoulders, and 
turned him a little to the right, so that the 
moonlight fell full upon his face. 

“Yes. You have changed. Your—promo¬ 
tion—has made a difference,” she murmured. 
“You speak gravely. You look older. You 
are more serious. And there are little lines, 
and wrinkles, and a frown there, that was 
never there before.” 

The King drew in his breath sharply. 

The light pressure of Judith’s hands on his 
shoulders, and the sudden acute sense of her 
nearness which it brought him, disturbed him 
strangely. 

This was a mistake. This was dangerous. 
And it was unlike Judith. It was not Judith’s 
way. 

All at once Judith seemed to divine his dis¬ 
tress. 

She turned from him quickly. 


THE KING WHO 


“Come and see the Imps,” she said, “I was 
just going in, to look at them, when you ar¬ 
rived.” 

Light of foot, and slender, and tall, she 
moved off then, on tiptoe, without waiting for 
him, along the shadowy verandah, towards 
the open window-door of the night nursery 
near by. 

Conscious of a relief, of which he was some¬ 
how ashamed, the King followed her, obe¬ 
diently, on tiptoe in turn. 

In the night nursery, the nightlight, which 
protected Button and Bill from the evil machi¬ 
nations of ghosts and goblins, was burning 
dimly, in its saucer, on the mantelpiece, but a 
shaft of bright moonlight revealed the two cots, 
at the far end of the room, in which the chil¬ 
dren lay, fast asleep, side by side. Judith was 
already bending over the foot of the cots, when 
the King entered the room. She looked round 
at him, finger on lip, as he approached. But¬ 
ton, flushed and rosy, stirred in his sleep, and 
flung one small arm out of bed, across the 
snow-white counterpane. Bill, cherubic and 
chubby, heroically lying on, lest he should 
suck, his thumb, never moved. 

“They have had a wonderful day,” Judith 
whispered. “We ran our flag up, this morn- 
:-C48> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


ing, in honour of the King, and I tried to 
make them understand about the Coronation. 
Bill wanted to know if Uncle Alfred would be 
in the procession! They would do nothing else 
for the rest of the day, but play at being King. 
You see, they took their crowns to bed with 
them. ,, 

She pointed to two crowns, crude, home¬ 
made, cardboard toys, covered with gilt and 
silver paper, which lay, one on each pillow, 
beside the sleeping children. 

A strange thrill, a chill of presentiment, a 
sense of some impending crisis, which, it 
seemed, he was powerless to prevent, which he 
must make no attempt to prevent, ran through 
the King. He shivered. Then he leant over 
the cots, and, very carefully, lest he should 
wake him, picked up the crown which lay on 
Button’s pillow. 

The crude, grotesque, cardboard toy made a 
poignant appeal to him. 

Inevitably this toy cardboard crown re¬ 
minded the King of that other Crown, from 
which, even here in Paradise, it seemed, he 
could not escape, that other Crown which had 
been placed on his head at the climax of the 
long and exhausting Coronation ceremony, not 
many hours back. That other Crown had been 
-C49> 


THE KING WHO 


heavy. This was light. That other Crown 
had been fashioned by cunning artists in metal, 
out of the enduring materials judged most pre¬ 
cious by man. This crown had been labor¬ 
iously patched together by the untried fingers 
of a child, out of the flimsy, worthless mater¬ 
ials furnished by a nursery cupboard. And 
yet, of the two crowns, was the one more valu¬ 
able, more worth possessing, than the other? 
Both were symbols. That other Crown was 
the symbol of a heavy burden, of a great re¬ 
sponsibility. This toy crown was the symbol 
of a child’s fertile imagination, and happy 
play. Both were pageantry. The one was the 
pageantry of a lifetime’s isolation, and labour. 
The other was the pageantry of a child’s happy 
play, for a single summer day. 

The irony of the contrast, the irony of his 
own position, gripped the King, with a thrill 
of something akin to physical pain. 

With the absurd, toy cardboard crown still 
in his hand, he turned, and looked at Judith. 

A dimly realized, instinctive rather than con¬ 
scious, desire for sympathy prompted his look. 

And Judith failed him. 

It was not what she did. It was not what 
she said. She did nothing. She said nothing. 

-C50> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


And yet, in one of those strange flashes of in¬ 
tuition, which come, at times, to the least sen¬ 
sitive of men, the King was aware that Judith 
was not herself; that the accord which had 
hitherto always existed between them was bro¬ 
ken; and that he and she had suddenly become 
—antagonistic. 

Judith stood with her hands resting lightly 
on the brass rail at the foot of Button’s cot. 
Outwardly her attitude was wholly passive.. 
None the less, as he gazed at her, the King’s 
intuitive conviction of their new antagonism 
deepened. 

An odd, tense, little pause ensued. 

Then, suddenly, Judith turned, and looked 
at him. 

A wonderful look. A look which amazed, 
and dumbfounded the King. A look, not of 
antagonism, as he had anticipated, but, well¬ 
ing up from the depths of her dark, myster¬ 
ious eyes, a look which spoke, unmistakably, 
of a woman’s tenderness, sympathy, surren¬ 
der, love. 

For a breathless moment or two, they stood 
thus, facing each other. 

Then Judith bent down, hurriedly, over the 

cots once again. 




THE KING WHO 


“If you will go out on to the verandah, Al¬ 
fred, I will join you there, in a minute or two,” 
she said. 

Her voice was husky, tremulous, low. 

Mechanically, the King replaced the absurd 
toy cardboard crown, which he was still hold¬ 
ing in his hand, on Button’s pillow. Then, 
dazed, and like a man in a dream, he swung 
slowly round on his heel, and passed back, 
through the room, out to the verandah again. 

The nightingales were still singing in the 
garden. The air was heavy with the rich 
scent of some night-blossoming stock, set in 
one of the flowerbeds immediately below the 
verandah rail. The moon was afloat in a little 
sea of luminous, billowy, drifting clouds. 

The King sat down in one of the large, 
wicker work chairs, which always stood on the 
verandah. 

He was glad to sit down. 

He was trembling from head to foot— 

It was for rest, and quiet, and peace, that 
he had run out to see Judith, and between 
them, all in a moment, they had blundered, 
together, into the thick of an emotional crisis. 

How? Why? 

It was all an inexplicable mystery to him. 

Where was the white line Judith had always 
-C52^ 


WENT ON STRIKE 


drawn round herself? Where was the bar¬ 
rier of physical reserve she had always main¬ 
tained inviolable between them? From the 
first moment of his arrival, he realized now, 
in some odd way, almost in spite of herself as 
it were, she had been—alluring! 

A strange, new Judith! 

A sudden, queer feeling of resentment stirred 
within the King. 

He had been so sure of Judith! 

She had placed him in an impossible, an in¬ 
tolerable position. 

No. That was unfair, unjust. Judith was 
not to blame. Judith did not know—how 
could she know?—the peculiar difficulties, the 
inexorable limitations, imposed upon him by 
his Royal rank. She did not know—how could 
she know?—that friendship was all he could 
accept from, all he could offer, to, any woman. 
To Judith, he was merely a young naval officer, 
whose frequent visits, whose unmistakable de¬ 
light in her society, could have only one 
meaning. 

He alone was to blame. By his own act, by 
his own deliberate concealment of his real 
identity, he had made this crisis inevitable 
from the first. 

What attitude was he to adopt towards 
-£53;}- 


THE KING WHO 


Judith now? Could he ignore what had hap¬ 
pened? Could he hope that Judith would 
allow him to ignore what had happened? Or 
had the time come when he must reveal his 
real identity to Judith at last? Would she be¬ 
lieve him? If she believed him, would she be 
able to forgive his deception? And, even if 
she forgave him, would not the shadow thrown 
by his Royal rank irretrievably injure his in¬ 
timacy with her, with the Imps, and with 
Uncle Bond? All the spontaneity, the ease, 
and the naturalness of their relationship would 
be at an end. 

No. Whatever happened he could not risk 
that. 

Judith and Uncle Bond, were the only peo¬ 
ple he had ever known who had received him, 
who had accepted him, for what he was him¬ 
self, the man who remained when all the ad¬ 
ventitious trappings of Royalty had been dis¬ 
carded. Judith and Uncle Bond, were the 
only people he ever met, who treated him as 
an equal. As an equal? Judith, and Uncle 
Bond, quite rightly, often treated him as their 
inferior, their inferior in knowledge, in ex¬ 
perience, in wisdom. 

The King leant back in his chair, and closed 
his eyes. He was suddenly very weary. The 


WENT ON STRIKE 


reaction following all that he had been through 
the last twenty-four hours was heavy upon him. 
Difficult and dangerous moments, he realized, 
lay immediately in front of him. And he was 
in no condition to meet either difficulty or dan¬ 
ger. What he wanted now was rest— 

It was some little time before Judith reap¬ 
peared on the verandah. When she did re¬ 
appear she brought with her a tray on which 
stood decanters, and glasses, and biscuits, and 
fruit. A picnic meal, like the one which he 
had enjoyed on that first memorable night 
twelve months ago, had become, whenever 
possible, a feature of the ordinary routine of 
the King’s visits. 

Judith set down her tray on a wicker work 
table which stood beside the King. 

The King did not look round. He could 
not, he dare not, face Judith. 

Judith slipped behind his chair. 

“I am sorry, Alfred,” she said. “I blame 
myself. It was my fault. It ought not to 
have happened, tonight, of all nights. You 
were absolutely worn out, already, weren’t 
you? I might, I ought to, have remembered 
that. I want you to forget all about it, if you 
can. Now, how long can you stay?” 

A great wave of relief swept over the King. 


THE KING WHO 


Judith was herself again. 

This was the old Judith. 

“I shall have to leave at seven o’clock in the 
morning, as usual. I must be back in town 
by eight o’clock at the latest,” he said. 

“Then you must have a drink, and some¬ 
thing to eat, at once,” Judith, the old Judith, 
announced taking absolute command of him 
again, from that moment, as was her wont. 
“We’ll stay out here, and listen to the nightin¬ 
gales, for half an hour, if you like. I am glad 
they are singing for you, tonight. And then, 
and then you will go straight to bed.” 

Drawing another chair up to the table, as 
she spoke, she sat down. Then she proceeded 
to wait upon him with the easy, unembarrassed 
grace which gave such an intimate charm to 
all her hospitality. 

“Whisky and soda? And a biscuit? Or 
will you smoke?” she asked. 

“I am too tired to smoke. I am almost too 
tired to drink, I think,” the King murmured. 

Judith looked at him keenly. 

“What you want is sleep, Alfred,” she said. 
“Drink this! It will do you good. Don’t 
bother to talk. I’ll do the talking.” 

The King took the glass which Judith held 
out to him, and drank, as he was told. 


WENT ON STRIKE 


Then he leant further back still in his chair. 

He had reached a point, he was suddenly 
conscious now, not far removed from complete 
exhaustion. 

In a little while, Judith, as she had prom¬ 
ised, began to talk. 

“You will see Uncle Bond, in the morning, 
of course,” she remarked. “You will do him 
good. He is in rather a bad way, just at pres¬ 
ent, poor old dear. The new serial seems to 
be giving him a lot of trouble. ‘Cynthia St. 
Claire’ isn’t functioning properly, at the mo¬ 
ment. He’s locked himself up, for several 
nights now, without any result. He says it 
doesn’t seem to matter how many candles he 
lights. ‘Cynthia’ still eludes him. It really 
is a sort of Jekyll and Hyde business with him, 
you know. If he is to do any work, he has 
to be ‘Cynthia St. Claire,’ and not James Bond. 
It is plain James Bond we prefer, of course. 
But it is ‘Cynthia’ who makes all the money, 
you know. 

“The worst of it is, in spite of what Uncle 
Bond says, I am afraid it isn’t all ‘Cynthia’s’ 
fault this time. He’s been running up to town, 
and knocking about the clubs, a good deal 
lately. That is nearly always a sign that he 
is trying to dodge ‘Cynthia.’ It is almost as 


THE KING WHO 


if he had got something on his mind. Seeing 
you will do him good. He always gets what 
he calls a flow on, when you have been over. 
He wants it badly now. The new story is 
three instalments behind the time-table al¬ 
ready. Part of his trouble, I think, is that he 
is working on a plain heroine. He does them 
alternately, you know. One Plain. The next 
Ringlets. This one, I understand, is very 
plain. He misses the chance, I believe, of fill¬ 
ing in with purple passages of personal de¬ 
scription. You have read some of Uncle 
Bond’s stuff, haven’t you? Officially, I am 
not allowed to. Unofficially, of course, I read 
every word of it I can get hold of. It’s won¬ 
derful how he keeps it up, isn’t it? And, 
every now and then, in spite of ‘Cynthia,’ he 
slips in something, without knowing it, which 
only James Bond could have written. All 
sorts of unexpected people read him, you know. 
He says it is the name, and not the stuff, that 
does the trick. I think that it is the stuff. 
People like romance. Uncle Bond gives it to 
them.” 

At that moment, the sleep, of which the King 
stood in such dire need, long overdue as it was, 
touched his eyelids. 

Judith shot out her arm, and skilfully re- 

-CS8> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


trieved the half empty glass, which all but fell 
from his hand. 

A little later, when he awoke with a start, 
conscious of the strange refreshment which 
even a moment's sleep brings, he found that 
Judith’s hand was in his. 

“It has been a wonderful summer,” Judith 
murmured. “If the sun did not shine again, 
for months, we should have no right to com¬ 
plain. First the lilac, and the chestnuts, and 
the hawthorn; then the laburnum and the 
rhododendrons; and now the wild roses are 
beginning to show in the hedges. The sky¬ 
larks singing at dawn; the cuckoo calling all 
day; the thrushes and the blackbirds whistling 
in the hot afternoon; and the nightingales, 
singing at night, as they are singing now! 
The bright sun in the morning, the blue sky, 
and the green of the trees. The haymakers 
at work in the fields. The whir of the hay¬ 
cutting machine. The Imps tumbling over 
each other in the hay, and calling to me. 
Diana’s foal in the paddock, all long legs, and 
short tail. The wren’s nest in the garden, 
with six little wrens in it for Jenny Wren to 
feed. The afternoon sunlight on the trees; 
Uncle Bond in the garden, chuckling over his 
roses; the sunset; the young rabbits, with their 


THE KING WHO 


white bobtails, scuttling in and out of the 
hedges; a patter of rain on the leaves; the 
breeze in the trees; the twilight; the cool of 
the evening; and then the blue of the night 
sky, the stars, and the golden moon, in a bed 
of billowy, drifting clouds. The scent of the 
hayfields, the scent of the flowers; and the 
nightingales singing, in the garden, as they 
are singing now! 

“The nightingales are singing about it all. 
Can you hear what they say? I have been 
trying to put the nightingales’ song into words. 
Listen! Those long, liquid notes—” 

The night air was heavy with the scent of 
the night-blossoming stock, in the flowerbed, 
immediately below the verandah rail. The 
nightingales sang as if at the climax of their 
rivalry for mastery. A huge owl lumbered, 
rather than flew, across the shadowy garden. 

For a moment, it seemed to the King, as if 
the verandah, the house, the garden, and even 
the night sky, stood away from them, receded, 
and that he and Judith were alone, together, 
in infinite space. 

The moment passed. 

Judith stood up. 

“Bed!” she said, speaking with the note of 
smiling, kindly discipline, with which she ruled 
< 60 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


the Imps, and, when she chose, even Uncle 
Bond and himself. “You will be able to sleep 
now, Alfred.” 

The King rose obediently to his feet to find, 
with a certain dull, dazed surprise, that he 
was stiff and sore, and hardly able to stand. 

Dazed as he was, he did not fail to see the 
look of sharp anxiety which shone, for a 
moment, in Judith’s eyes. 

“Lean on me, old man!” she exclaimed. 
“You are done up. I’ll see you to your room. 
They have been working you too hard. Do 
they never think of—the man—in your 
Service?” 

She put out her arm, as she spoke, and 
slipped it skilfully round his shoulders. 

And so, glad of Judith’s support, and only 
restfully conscious of her nearness now, the 
King moved off slowly along the verandah 
towards the room, at the far end of the silent, 
darkened house, which had come to be re¬ 
garded as his room, and, as such, was strictly 
reserved, “in perpetuity,” for his use alone. 

“Here you are!” Judith announced, at last, 
halting at the open window door of the room. 
“You will be able to manage by yourself now, 
won’t you? You must sleep now, Alfred. 
Dreamless sleep! Every minute of it! The 
< 61 ^ 


THE KING WHO 


Imps will call you, as usual, in the morning. 
Good-night.’’ 

A minute or two later, the King found him¬ 
self alone, inside the room, sitting on the edge 
of the bed, with an urgent desire for sleep 
rising within him. 

The fresh, fragrant night air blew softly 
into the room, through the open window door, 
beyond which he could see, as he sat on the 
edge of the bed, the gently swaying branches 
of the garden trees, silhouetted against the 
dark blue background of the moonlit sky. 

The nightingales were still singing in the 
garden. 

Yes. He could sleep here. 

The room itself invited rest, induced sleep. 
Plainly, although comfortably furnished, and 
decorated throughout in a soothing tint of grey, 
the room had a spaciousness, even an empti¬ 
ness, which was far more to the King’s taste, 
than the ornate fittings of that other bedroom 
of his in the palace, where sleep so often eluded 
him. Beyond the absolutely necessary fur¬ 
niture, there was nothing in the room, save 
the few essential toilet trifles which he kept 
there. Nothing was ever altered in, nothing 
was ever moved from, this room, in his absence. 
It had all become congenial, friendly, familiar. 
-C 62 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


The King undressed, mechanically, in the 
moonlight, and put on the sleeping suit which 
lay ready to his hand, on the bed, at his side. 

Then he got into bed. 

His last thought was one of gratitude to, 
and renewed confidence in, Judith. How she 
had humoured, how she had managed him, 
coaxing and cajoling him, as if he had been a 
sick child, along the shadowy road to sleep. 
The emotional crisis which had arisen so inex¬ 
plicably between them had, as inexplicably 
spent its force harmlessly. Their friendship 
was unimpaired. Nothing was altered be¬ 
tween them. Nothing was to be altered. Ju¬ 
dith had emphasized that. The Imps were to 
wake him, in the morning, as usual. He was 
to see Uncle Bond. All was to be as it had 
always been. He was glad. He had no wish 
for, he shrank instinctively from the thought 
of, any changes, here, in Paradise. 

But now he must sleep. Dreamless sleep. 

And so, he fell asleep. 

He slept, at once, so soundly, that he never 
stirred, when, in a little while, Judith slipped 
noiselessly into the room. Crossing to the 
bed, she stood, for a moment or two, looking 
down at him, with all the unfathomable tender¬ 
ness in her dark, mysterious eyes, which she 
-C63> 


THE KING WHO 


had asked him to forget, which she had made 
him forget. 

Suddenly, she leant over the bed, and kissed 
him lightly on the forehead. 

Then she slipped quickly out of the room, 
once again. 


r -C64^ 


CHAPTER V 


T was to the sound of the patter 
of bare feet, on the polished 
floor of his bedroom, followed 
by suppressed gurgles of joy¬ 
ous laughter, that the King 
awoke, in the morning. Bright sunshine was 
streaming into the room, through the still open 
window door. Button and Bill, their faces 
rosy with health and sleep, and their hair 
still tousled, as it had come from their pillows, 
engagingly droll little figures in their dimin¬ 
utive sleeping suits, stood at his bedside, watch¬ 
ing him with shining, mischievous eyes. As 
he sat up in bed, they flung themselves at him, 
with triumphant shouts, wriggling and swarm¬ 
ing all over him, as they essayed to smother 
him, under his own bedclothes and pillows. 

At the end of two or three hilarious, and 
vivid moments of mimic fight, the King brought 
the heavy artillery of his bolster to bear on his 
enemies, smiting them cunningly in the “safe 
places” of their wriggling, deliciously fresh 
little bodies, and so driving them, inch by 
inch, down to the foot of the bed, where, still 
-C65> 












THE KING WHO 


laughing and gurgling gloriously, they rolled 
themselves up, to evade his blows, like a 
couple of young hedgehogs. 

Then the King flung his bolster on to the 
floor, and, reaching out his arms, took his 
enemies captive, tucking them, one under each 
arm, and holding them there, kicking and pro¬ 
testing, but wholly willing prisoners. 

Button, at this point, although suspended 
under the King’s left arm, more or less in mid¬ 
air, contrived to wriggle his right hand free, 
and held it out gravely, to be shaken. On 
the strength of his seven years, Button had 
lately given up kissing in public, and begun 
to affect the formal manner of the man of the 
world, in matters of courtesy, as shrewdly 
observed in Uncle Bond. 

“Good morning, my boy/’ he remarked, in 
Uncle Bond’s blandest manner. 

In order to shake Button’s hand, the King 
was compelled to release Bill from his prison, 
under his right arm. Bill, whose happy fate 
it was to be still only five, the true golden 
age, had no man of the world pretensions, no 
sense of shame in his affections. Breaking 
ruthlessly into Button’s formal greeting, he 
flung both his chubby arms round the King’s 
neck, pulled his head down to be kissed, and 
-C66> 


WENT ON STRIKE 

then hugged him, with all the force in his lithe 
little body, chanting in a voice absurdly like 
Judith’s the while— 

“Diana’s got a foal, all legs and stumpy tail, 
and a white star on its face. We’re making the 
hay. There’s a wren’s nest in the garden. It’s 
past six o’clock, and it’s a lovely summer morn¬ 
ing, and you’ve got to get up, Uncle Alfred.” 

From some dusty pigeonhole in his memory, 
where it had lain since his own far-away child¬ 
hood, there floated out into the King’s mind, a 
phrase, a sentence— 

“And I said I will not put forth mine hand to 
touch my King, for he is the Lord’s Anointed. 

It was a phrase, a sentence, which he could 
trace back to the Bible lessons, which had 
been as faithfully and remorselessly delivered, 
on Sunday afternoons, in the Royal nursery, 
as in any other nursery of the period, when 
the strict discipline in such matters, derived 
originally from the now Well-nigh forgotten 
Victorian era, had not been altogether relaxed. 
It was a phrase, a sentence, which had im¬ 
pressed itself upon his childish imagination, 
and had, for years, stood between him, and his 
father, the King. His father had been the 
Lord’s Anointed. As a child he had not 
< 67 > 


THE KING WHO 


dared to put forth his hand to touch him! 
For years, he had lived in awe, almost in fear, 
of his own father. Perhaps this was why, 
even down to the day of his death, the King 
had always seemed to him to be a man apart, 
isolated, lonely, remote. Perhaps this was 
partly why, he himself, now that he was King, 
was so constanly conscious of his own intoler¬ 
able isolation. 

“And I said I will not put forth mine hand to 
touch my King, for he is the Lord’s Anointed.” 

If Button and Bill, particularly Bill, whose 
chubby arms were, even now, tightening around 
him, knew his real identity, knew that he was 
the King, “the Lord’s Anointed,” not a fairy 
tale King, not a King of their own childish 
play, but the King, in whose procession they 
had thought Uncle Alfred might have a place, 
would not they live in awe of him, would not 
they fear him, would not the present delight¬ 
ful spontaneity, the fearlessness, the frank 
embraces, of their intercourse with him, be 
irreparably injured? 

Yes. His decision of the night before must 
stand. 

Button and Bill must never know, Judith 
-C68> 


WENT ON STRIKE 

and Uncle Bond must never know, his real 
identity. 

At that moment, Judith knocked at the bed¬ 
room door. 

“Good morning, Alfred. The bathroom 
is yours, and the Imps, if you don’t mind 
having them with you, and letting them have 
a splash,’’ she called out cheerily. “But no 
flood in the passage, this morning, mind! 
Breakfast in half an hour, on the verandah. 
We shall be by ourselves. Uncle Bond has 
had another bad night. ‘Cynthia’ has failed 
him again. He daren’t face eggs and bacon 
in public, he says. Hurry up, Imps. Big 
sponge, floating soap, and bath towels, at the 
double.” 

“I’m first!” Button shrieked, making a wild 
dive for the door. 

“I’d rather be last!” Bill explained, quite 
unconcerned, lingering to give the King a final 
hug. 

“If I’m last, I shall be able to float ‘Iron¬ 
clad Willie,’ and ‘Snuffles,’ shan’t I? They 
haven’t had a swim—for ever so long—poor 
dears.” 

‘Ironclad Willie,’ and ‘Snuffles,’ were a large 
china fish, and a small china duck, which Bill 
-C69^ 


THE KING WHO 


sometimes forgot, and sometimes remembered 
at bath time. 

A hilarious, crowded, half hour followed. It 
was a half hour lit up, for the King, by the 
blended innocence and mischief which shone 
in the Imps’ eyes, a half hour set to music for 
him by the Imps’ gurgling chuckles, and 
radiant, childish laughter. First came the 
bathroom, where the Imps splashed and 
twisted in the bath, their brown, wriggling little 
bodies as lithe and supple as those of young 
eels; where Bill, lost in a huge bath towel, 
demanded assistance in drying all the back 
places and corners; where Button solemnly 
lathered his chin, just as Uncle Alfred lathered 
his chin; where Bill was, for one terrible 
moment, in imminent peril of his life, as he 
grabbed at the case of shining razors. Then 
came the bedroom again, where odd, queer¬ 
shaped little garments had to be turned right 
side out, and buttons and strings had to be 
fastened, and tied. Innocency, fearlessness, 
trust, mischief, and laughter were inextricably 
mingled in it all, with laughter predominating, 
the radiant laughter of the happy child, ig¬ 
norant of evil. 

All this was all as it had always been, and, 
for that reason, it all made a more poignant 
-C70> 


WENT ON STRIKE 

appeal, than ever before, this morning, to the 
King. 

Breakfast was served, as Judith had prom¬ 
ised, out on the sunlit verandah. 

One glance at Judith, as he approached the 
breakfast table, assured the King that it was 
the old Judith with whom he had to deal. 

Dressed in white, and as fresh and cool as 
the morning, Judith was already in her place, 
at the head of the table, hospitably entrenched 
behind the coffee pot. 

She looked up at the King, with her cus¬ 
tomary little nod, and friendly smile. 

“You slept? You are rested? It was 
dreamless sleep? Good boy!” she said. 

And she poured out his coffee. 

From that moment, they fell, easily and 
naturally, into their usual routine. 

Intimate conversation, with the Imps at the 
table, was out of the question. An occasional 
glance, a sympathetic smile, was all that could 
pass between them. The King was well con¬ 
tent to have it so. He was pleasantly conscious 
that the accord between them, which had been 
so inexplicably broken, for a time, the night 
before, was completely restored. Their friend¬ 
ship was unimpaired. Nothing else mattered. 
Looking at Judith, cool, competent, and self- 
< 71 > 


THE KING WHO 


contained, as she was, he found himself almost 
doubting the actuality of the emotional crisis 
of the night before. Had that scene in the 
night nursery been a dream? A mere figment 
of his own fevered, disordered imagination? 

The birds whistled, and called cheerily from 
the sunlit greenness of the garden. 

The Imps chattered like magpies as they 
attacked their porridge. 

It was a merry, informal, delightfully 
domestic meal. 

This, it seemed to the King, was his only real 
life. That other life of his in the palace, 
guarded, night and day, by the soldiery, and 
the police, was the illusion, was the dream. 

But the meal was, inevitably, a hurried one, 
and it ended, abruptly, and all too soon, when 
Judith rose suddenly to her feet, and drove the 
Imps before her, along the verandah, to say 
good morning to Diana’s foal in the paddock. 

No word of farewell was spoken. 

It had become an understood thing, part 
of the usual routine, that the King should 
never say good-bye. 

Left alone, the King leant back in his chair, 
and filled, and lit, his pipe. He always lingered 
for awhile, beside the disordered breakfast 
table, on these occasions, so that he could 
«C72 


WENT ON STRIKE 

savour to the full, the peace, the quietness, and 
the beauty of his surroundings. He had learnt 
to store up such impressions in his memory, so 
that he could invoke them, for his own en¬ 
couragement, in his darker hours. And, it was 
more than probable, that if he waited a few 
minutes, Uncle Bond would come out to speak 
to him. A sentence or two, from Judith’s talk 
the night before, recurred to him now. Uncle 
Bond, really worried, was a new, and strange, 
phenomenon. If he could cheer the little man 
up, as Judith had suggested, he would be glad. 
He owed a great deal to Uncle Bond. 

A thrush, perched at the top of a tall fir 
tree, near the house, whistled blithely. 

The minutes passed. 

Uncle Bond did not come. 

At last, the King glanced reluctantly at his 
watch. It was seven o’clock. It was time for 
him to go. He must be back in the palace 
by eight o’clock, at the latest. He stood up. 
Then, conscious of a keen sense of disappoint¬ 
ment at not seeing Uncle Bond, over and above 
the depression which he always felt when the 
moment came for him to leave Paradise, he 
stepped down off the verandah, and moved 
slowly round the side of the house, through the 
sunlit garden, towards the garage. 


THE KING WHO 


He had no hope of seeing Judith, or even the 
Imps, again. They would stay in the paddock, 
or in the hayfields beyond, until he had driven 
away, clear of the house, and the garden. 


•CM* 


CHAPTER VI 


NCLE BOND, as it proved, had 
been waiting for him, all the 
time, at the garage. 

The little man had run the 
King’s car, out of the garage, 
. Already seated himself in the 
car, he looked up, as the King approached, with 
a mischievous twinkle in his spectacled eyes, 
and a droll smile puckering his round, double- 
chinned, clean-shaven face. 

“Good morning, my boy, I’m going to see you 
along the main road, for a mile or two,” he 
announced. “I shall have to walk back. That 
will be good for me. Judith says I’m getting 
fat! Thought I was cutting you, didn’t you? 
I thought that I’d stage a little surprise for 
you. Astonishment is good for the young. It 
is the only means we old fogies have left, 
nowadays, of keeping you youngsters properly 
humble. The Imps have taught me that! 
Jump in! I want to talk to you.” 

The King looked at the corpulent little man, 
and laughed. 

“I was feeling absurdly disappointed, be- 

< 752 - 



into the drive 












THE KING WHO 

cause I hadn’t seen you, Uncle Bond,” he con¬ 
fessed. 

Putting on his thick leather motor coat, and 
adjusting his goggles, which the little man had 
placed in readiness for him, on the vacant 
seat at the steering wheel, the King got into 
the car, and started the engine. 

“The first mile in silence 1” Uncle Bond 
directed. “If possible I have got to assume 
an unaccustomed air of gravity. And drive 
slowly. The subtlety of that suggestion prob¬ 
ably escapes you. A bar or two of slow music 
and—enter emotion! When I chuckle again, 
you can change your gear.” 

Away from the house, down the short, sun¬ 
lit drive, and out into, and up, the narrow tree- 
shadowed lane beyond, the King drove slowly, 
and in silence, as the little man had directed. 

All but buried under the big, black som¬ 
brero-like felt hat, which it was his whim to 
affect, in grotesque contrast with the light, 
loosely cut shooting clothes which were his 
habitual wear, Uncle Bond sat low down in his 
seat in the car, on the King’s left. In spite 
of his invocation of gravity, gravity remained 
far from him. Nothing could altogether efface 
the mischievous twinkle which lurked in his 
spectacled eyes, or blot out, for long, the mock- 
-C76> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


ing smile which puckered his mobile lips. But 
the King knew Uncle Bond well enough to 
realize that he was unusually thoughtful. 
What was it Judith had said? It was almost 
as if Uncle Bond had something on his mind. 
Judith was right. The little man, clearly, at 
any rate, had something that he wanted to 
say. 

It was not until the car had swung out of 
the lane, and headed for London, was sweeping 
down the broad, and, at this comparatively 
early hour of the morning, empty, Great North 
Road, that Uncle Bond spoke. 

“We have not seen very much of you, lately, 
my boy,” he remarked. “You have been busy, 
no doubt. In the Service, you young men are 
not your own masters, of course. And Judith 
tells me that they have even made the mistake 
of giving you—promotion. I have been 
wondering if that—promotion—is likely to 
make your visits to us more difficult, and so 
rarer? The increasing responsibility, the in¬ 
creasing demands on your energy, and on your 
time, which your—promotion—has, no doubt, 
brought with it, will, perhaps, interfere with 
your visits to us? Perhaps you will have to 
discontinue your visits to us, altogether, for 
a time?” 


-C77> 


THE KING WHO 


Although his own eyes were, of necessity, 
fixed on the stretch of the broad, empty, sun¬ 
lit road, immediately in front of the throbbing 
car, the King was uncomfortably aware that 
Uncle Bond was watching him narrowly as 
he spoke. This, then, was the something that 
the little man had on his mind. Suspicion? 
Doubt? Doubt of him? Doubt of his loyalty 
to his friends? In spite of the little man’s 
suave manner, and carefully chosen phrases, it 
seemed to the King that the inference was 
unmistakable. It was an astonishing in¬ 
ference to come from Uncle Bond. Dis¬ 
continue his visits? This, when he had just 
been congratulating himself on the unchanged 
nature of his intimacy with Judith, and with 
the Imps, so unexpectedly, and seriously, 
threatened, the night before, but so thoroughly 
and happily, re-established, that morning. Had 
he not made up his mind that all was to be 
as it had always been? But Uncle Bond 
knew nothing about that, of course. 

“My—promotion—will not interfere with 
my visits to you, and to Judith, Uncle Bond,” 
he declared. 

“You are sure of that?” Uncle Bond per¬ 
sisted. 

“Absolutely certain,” the King exclaimed. 


WENT ON STRIKE 


and in spite of his efforts to suppress it, a note 
of rising irritation sounded in his voice. 

There was a momentary pause. 

Then Uncle Bond chuckled. 

“Change your gear, my boy. I chuckled! 
Change your gear,” he crowed. “A mile or 
two of real speed will do neither you nor me, 
any harm, now. Did I not say—‘Enter emo¬ 
tion ! ’ But I did not say that it would be my 
emotion, did I? You are the hero of this 
piece. It is for you the slow music has to be 
played. I am only the knockabout comedian, 
useful for filling in the drop scenes. Or am I 
the heavy father? ’Pon my soul, when I come 
to think of it, it seems to me that I am destined 
to double the two parts.” 

He laid his hand on the King’s arm. 

“I like your answer, my boy. It is the 
answer I expected you to make. But I could 
not be sure. Human nature being the unac¬ 
countable thing that it is, I could not be sure. 
And now, I have another question to ask you. 
And I am the heavy father now. If only I 
could be grave! If your visits to us are to 
continue, don’t you think it will be, perhaps, 
as well for you to be a little more careful about 
—the conventions, shall I say? You arrived 
very late, last night. Judith was alone to re- 


THE KING WHO 


ceive you. Such circumstances are liable to 
be misunderstood, don’t you think? And, 
although we are all apt to overlook the fact, 
we are all—human. A wise man avoids, for 
his own sake, and for the sake of others— 
certain provocations. The prudent man for- 
seeth the evil’—but the quotation would be lost 
on you. A text for my sermon!” 

The King had, automatically, let out the 
car, in response to Uncle Bond’s direction. 
He applied all his brakes, and slowed the car 
down again now, on his own behalf. He 
wanted to be able to breathe, to think. 

This was the first time Uncle Bond had ever 
spoken to him in this way. The wonder, of 
course, was that he had never spoken to him, 
in this way, before. Did the little man know 
what had happened the night before? No. 
That was impossible. Judith would not, 
Judith could not, have disclosed what had 
happened to him. It must be his own unerring 
instinct, his own sure knowledge of human 
nature, which had prompted the little man to 
deliver this sermon. This sermon? This 
generous, kindly, tactful, whimsical reproof. 
How well deserved the reproof was, the events 
of the night before had shown. 


WENT ON STRIKE 


“I am sorry, Uncle Bond. I have been very 
thoughtless,” he said. “It will not happen 
again.” 

“Judith and I appreciate your visits, my 
boy,” Uncle Bond continued. “It would be a 
matter of very great regret to—both of us—if 
we found that we had—to limit, in any way— 
the hospitality, which we have been so glad 
to offer you. We wish, we both wish, to main¬ 
tain our present, pleasant relationship, un¬ 
changed. That is your wish, too, I think?” 

The King let out the car once again. His 
emotions, his thoughts required, now, the relief 
of speed. 

“Somehow, I can never bear to think of any 
change, where you, and Judith, and the Imps 
are concerned, Uncle Bond,” he exclaimed. 
“Somehow, I can never think of you, except 
all together, in the surroundings you have 
made your own. And that is strange, you 
know! We are all, as you say—human. 
Judith—Judith is the superior of every woman 
I have ever met. Her place is, her place ought 
to be, by right, at the head of the procession. 
And yet, somehow, I can never see her there!” 

Uncle Bond sat very still. 

“At the head of the procession?” he mur- 


THE KING WHO 


mured. “Is that so enviable a position, my 
boy? Ask the man, ask the men, you find 
there!” 

He chuckled then unaccountably. 

The King winced. It was only one of the 
chance flashes of cynicism, with which Uncle 
Bond salted his talk, of course. But how 
true, and apposite, to his own position, and 
experience, the remark was! 

“And, if the head of the procession is no 
enviable place for a man, what would it be for 
a woman, for a woman with a heart?” Uncle 
Bond proceeded. “ ’Pon my soul, I am talk¬ 
ing pure ‘Cynthia’!” he exclaimed. ‘Cynthia’ 
has begun to function, at last! That last 
sentence was in the lazy minx’s best style. 
Judith will have told you that ‘Cynthia’ has 
been giving me a lot of trouble lately? You 
have lured her back, my boy. I thank you! 
You always attract her. She has a weakness 
for handsome young men. Her heroes are 
always Apollos.” 

He half turned, in his seat, towards the 
King. 

“My boy, I will offer you another piece of 
advice,” he remarked. “It is a mistake I do 
not often make.” His habits of speech were 


WENT ON STRIKE 


too much for him. Even now, when he was 
patently in earnest, the little man could not 
be grave. “My advice is this—never attempt 
to put, never think, even in your own mind, of 
putting Judith, at the head of any procession. 
It is not Judith’s place. Her place is in the 
background, the best place, the place that the 
best women always choose, in life. ‘Cynthia’ 
again! Pure ‘Cynthia’! Welcome, you minx! 
If you ever attempt to take Judith out of the 
background, out of the background which she 
has chosen for herself, you will encounter in¬ 
evitable disappointment, and cause yourself, 
and so her, pain. And you will spoil the— 
friendship—between you and Judith, which I 
have found so much—pleasure in watching* 
That is not ‘Cynthia.’ It is myself, plain 
James Bond. My advice, you see, like every¬ 
body else’s, is, by no means, disinterested.” 

The King smiled at the little man, almost in 
spite of himself. This was the true Uncle 
Bond. This was Uncle Bond’s way. 

“I wonder if you are right, Uncle Bond? I 
am afraid, my own feeling suggests, that you 
are,” he murmured. “And yet, somehow, I 
am not sure—” 

Unconsciously, he slowed down the car, yet 
-C83> 


THE KING WHO 

once again, as he spoke. The little man had 
stirred thoughts in him which required 
deliberate, and careful, expression. 

“I have not thought very much about the 
procession, myself, until just lately,” he said. 
“But it seems to me, you know, that we none 
of us, men and women alike, have very much 
to do with our place in the files. I have never 
believed in chance. And I am not, I think, 
a fatalist. And yet, you know, it seems to me 
that the procession catches us up, and sweeps 
us along, at the head or the tail, as the case 
may be, whether we will or no. A man may 
be caught up, suddenly, into the procession, 
and swept along with it, into some position, 
which he never expected to fill, which he would 
rather not fill, but from which he seems to have 
no chance of escape. Has he any chance of 
escape? It is the procession that controls us, 
I think, not we who control the procession. 
What do you think? Can a man escape? Can 
any of us ever really choose our place in the 
files?” 

Uncle Bond chuckled delightedly. 

“Judith told me that they had been over¬ 
working you, my boy. Judith, as usual, was 
right,” he remarked. “You appear to me to 
be in grave danger of becoming most satis- 
-C84> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


factorily morbid. Liver! Almost certainly 
liver! But about this procession of yours. 
Ton my soul, the figure, the fancy, is not un¬ 
worthy of ‘Cynthia’ herself. It would make a 
useful purple passage. Not for serial publica¬ 
tion, of course. We cut them out there. But 
we put them in again, when the time comes for 
the stuff to go into book form. The proces¬ 
sion of life! Yes. The idea is quite suf¬ 
ficiently threadbare. The one essential, for the 
successful production of money-making fiction 
is, of course, to be threadbare. Give the public 
what they have had before! But you are 
interested in the procession, not in the literary 
market. Can a man, or a woman, choose their 
place in the files? I say ‘yes!’ 

“Once or twice, in the life of every man and 
woman, I believe, come moments, when they 
must choose their place in the files, moments 
when they have to decide whether they will 
stay where they are, whether they will fight 
to hold the place they have, whether they will 
shoulder their way forward, or whether they 
will fall out, to one side, or to the rear. All 
my life, I have been watching the procession, 
my boy. That is why I have grown so fat! 
It is many years, now, since I decided to step 
out of the procession, to one side, and I have 
*C85> 


THE KING WHO 


been watching it sweep past, ever since. A 
brave show! But we have been talking glibly 
of the head and the tail of the procession. 
Where are they? I have never found them. I 
have never seen them. All I have ever seen is 
that the procession is there, and that it moves. 
But, no doubt, the band is playing—some¬ 
where— 

“But you are young, and they have just 
given you—promotion! You are in the pro¬ 
cession, sweeping through the market-place, 
with all the flags flying, and the band, as I 
say, playing—somewhere. But I, and Judith, 
we are a little to one side, in the background, 
watching you, in the procession, from one of 
the windows of the quiet, old-fashioned inn, at 
the corner of the market-place, the quiet, old- 
fashioned inn on the signboard of which is 
written, in letters of gold, ‘Content.’ Your 
instinct will probably, and very properly, 
prompt you to fight for your place in the 
files, when the other fellows tread too hard 
on your heels. But, whether you fight for 
your place or not, whether you come out at the 
head or the tail of the procession, wherever the 
head and tail may be, whether you step to one 
side, or fall out altogether, whatever happens to 
you, my boy, Judith and I will always be glad 


WENT ON STRIKE 


to welcome you to the inn at the corner, and 
give you a seat at our window. You will 
remember that? 

“And what do you think of that, as a purple 
passage, my boy? Ton my soul, it seems to 
me, now, that ‘Cynthia’ is functioning, she is 
in quite her best vein. I must get back home 
with her, at once. Pull up on this side of the 
signpost. I must not advance a foot into 
Hades, this morning, or I shall lose touch with 
the minx. She ought to be good for five or 
six thousand words today. And they are 
badly needed. The new story is three instal¬ 
ments behind the time-table already. It is 
the villain of the new piece, who is giving us 
trouble. Even ‘Cynthia,’ herself, is tired of 
him, I believe. He is a sallow person, with a 
pair of black, bushy eyebrows, which run up 
and down his forehead, with a regularity which 
is depressing. Two or three times, in each 
instalment, the confounded things go up and 
down, like sky-rockets. He lives in a myster¬ 
ious house, in one of the mean streets, in the 
new artistic quarter, in Brixton. The house 
is full of Eastern furniture, and glamour. That 
is threadbare enough, isn’t it? And I am 
using back numbers of ‘Punch,’ for humour.” 

Once again, the King let out the car. He 


THE KING WHO 


knew Uncle Bond well enough to recognize 
that the little man was talking extravagantly 
now, to hide the note of sincere personal feel¬ 
ing, which had sounded unmistakably in his 
talk of the procession, although he had been 
so careful to attribute it all to ‘Cynthia.’ It 
was on occasions such as this, after one of his 
sudden flashes of sincerity, that Uncle Bond 
became most outrageously flippant. Nothing 
but burlesque humour, and grotesque, ex¬ 
travagant nonsense was to be expected from 
him now. 

At the moment, flippancy jarred on the 
King. His attention had been riveted by the 
little man’s vivid, figurative talk of the proces¬ 
sion, so peculiarly apposite, as it was, to his 
own position, and the assurance of unchanging 
friendship, with which it had ended, had moved, 
and humbled him. He did not deserve, in 
view of his concealment of his real identity, 
he had no right to accept, such friendship. 

But Uncle Bond never did the expected 
thing! 

Now, as the throbbing car leapt forward, and 
swept along the broad, sunlit road at its high¬ 
est speed, the little man became suddenly 
silent. A new mood of abstraction seemed to 
fall upon him. It was almost as if he had still 


WENT ON STRIKE 

something on his mind, as if there was still 
something which he wanted to say. 

Soon the Paradise-Hades signpost, to which 
the King himself had introduced the little man, 
flashed into view, on the right of the road. 

The King at once pulled up the car, well on 
the Paradise side of the post. 

Uncle Bond threw off his unusual abstrac¬ 
tion, in a moment, and scrambled, nimbly 
enough, out of the car. 

The little man tested the car door carefully, 
to make sure that he had fastened it securely 
behind him. 

Then he looked up at the King, with an 
odd, provocative twinkle in his mischievous, 
spectacled eyes. 

“If I were you, Alfred, I should fight for my 
place in the procession, if necessary,” he re¬ 
marked. “Fight for your place, if necessary, 
my boy! After all, you are young, and they 
have just given you—promotion. I have a 
shrewd suspicion that you would not be satis¬ 
fied, for long, by the view from our window, in 
the quiet, old-fashioned, inn of ‘Content.’ You 
would soon want to alter the signboard inscrip¬ 
tion, I fancy. An occasional glance through 
the window is all very well. It is restful. It 
serves its purpose. But a taste for the stir, 
•C89> 


THE KING WHO 

the bustle, the jostling, and the dust and the 
clamour, in the market-place, is pretty deeply 
implanted in all of us. To be in the move¬ 
ment! It is, almost, the universal disease. 
A man, who is a man, a young man, wants to 
be in the thick of things, in the hurly-burly, in 
the street below. What is there for him in 
a window view? Fight for your place, if neces¬ 
sary, my boy! And, if you decide to fight, 
fight with a good grace, and with all your 
heart. It is the half-hearted men, it is the half¬ 
hearted women, who fail. The best places in 
the procession—whether they are at the head 
or the tail, and where the head and the tail 
are, who knows?—like the best seats at the 
inn windows, in the background, fall to the 
men, fall to the women, who know what they 
want, who know their own mind. 

“But, now, I must walk!” 

And with that, and with no other leave- 
taking, Uncle Bond swung round abruptly, and 
set off, with surprising swiftness, for so small, 
and so corpulent a man, straight back along 
the road. 

Automatically, the King restarted the car. 

Then he turned in his seat, to wave his 
hand, in farewell, to Uncle Bond. 

But Uncle Bond did not look round. 

-C90> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


The King glanced at his watch. It was 
already half past seven. He had a good deal 
of time to make up. But he could do it. He 
opened out the car, now, to its fullest extent. 
The powerful engine responded, at once, to his 
touch, and the car shot forward—out of 
Paradise into Hades I 

For once the King was unconscious of this 
transition. He was thinking of the procession, 
of Uncle Bond, of Judith, and of himself; 
their seats at the inn window; his place in 
the files. Must the whole width of the market¬ 
place always lie between them? Must it 
always be only occasionally, and with some 
risk—the risk he was running now—that he 
stepped out of the procession, and slipped, 
secretly, into the quiet “inn of Content,” to 
look through their window, to stand, for a few 
moments, at their side? They were in the 
background. He was at the head of the 
procession. At the head? Who knew, who 
could say, where the head or the tail was? 
Was the band playing—somewhere? He had 
never heard it. Would he tire of the window 
view—soon? Was he not tired already, of his 
place in the files? 

Fight for his place? Must he fight? A 
fight was something. The other fellows were 
< 91 > 


THE KING WHO 

treading very hard on his heels. But was his 
place worth fighting for? Did he want it? 
He had not chosen it. It had been thrust 
upon him. The moments of decision, when a 
man had to choose his place in the files, about 
which Uncle Bond had spoken so confidently, 
had never come to him. Moments of decision? 
What could he, what did he, ever decide? In 
the very fight for his place, which was impend¬ 
ing, he would not be allowed to commit himself. 
The fight would be fought for him, all around 
him, and he, the man most concerned, was the 
one man who could not, who would not be 
allowed, to take a side. It was all arranged 
for him. The old Duke of Northborough, the 
lightning conductor, would take the shock! 
And the result? Did he know what he wanted? 
Did he know his own mind? A half-hearted 
man! What a faculty Uncle Bond had for 
hitting on a phrase, a sentence, that stuck, that 
recurred. It described him. A half-hearted 
King. A half-hearted friend. A half-hearted 
—lover. 

But was it altogether his fault? Was it 
not his position, his intolerable isolation, his 
responsibility, which, by a bitter paradox, was 
without responsibility, that had thrown his 
whole life out of gear, and paralysed his will? 

-C92> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


As a sailor, in his own chosen profession, with 
responsibility, with the command of men, he 
had held his own, more than held his own, 
with his peers. He had had his place, an 
honourable place, amongst men of the same 
seniority as himself, and the Navy took the 
best men, the pick of the country. Yes. He 
knew what he wanted now. A moment of de¬ 
cision. A moment in which he could be him¬ 
self. A moment in which he could assert him¬ 
self, assert his own individuality, recklessly, 
violently, prove that he was not a half-hearted 
man, not an automaton, not an overdressed 
popinjay— 

At this point, the appearance of a certain 
amount of traffic on the road, as the car swept 
into the fringe of the outer suburbs, and the 
more careful driving which it entailed, broke 
the thread of the King’s thoughts. The in¬ 
evitable lowering of the speed of the car which 
followed, served to remind him anew that he 
still had a good deal of time to make up, thanks 
to his loitering with Uncle Bond, if he was to 
be successful in effecting his return to the 
palace unobserved. His rising anxiety about 
this now all important matter led him thence¬ 
forward to concentrate the whole of his atten¬ 
tion on his handling of the car. 

*C93> 


CHAPTER VII 


N the outer suburbs, milkmen, 
postmen, and boys delivering 
newspapers, were moving from 
door to door, in the quiet streets 
of villas. The tramcars, and 
later the buses, which the car caught up, and 
passed, were crowded with workmen, being 
carried at “Workmen’s Fares.” The shop 
fronts, in the inner suburbs, gay in the early 
morning sunlight, with their Coronation flags 
and decorations, were still all shuttered; but a 
thin trickle of men and women in the streets, 
moving in the direction of the railway stations, 
gave promise already of the impending rush of 
the business crowd. Coronation Day had 
come, and gone. The public holiday was over. 
Now there was work toward. 

At the far end of Tottenham Court Road, by 
which broad thoroughfare he approached, as 
he had escaped from, the town, the King 
deliberately varied the route which he had fol¬ 
lowed the night before. Heading the car 
straight on down Charing Cross Road, through 
Trafalgar Square, and so into Whitehall, he 












WENT ON STRIKE 


turned, at last, into Victoria Street. It was 
by the side streets, in the vicinity of Victoria 
Station, that he ultimately approached the 
palace, and ran out into Lower Grosvenor 
Place. He did this to avoid the neighbour¬ 
hood of the parks, and possible recognition by 
early morning riders, on their way to and from 
Rotten Row. 

Lower Grosvenor Place proved, as usual, 
deserted. In the secluded, shut-in mews, be¬ 
hind the tall houses, no one, as yet, was stirring. 
In a very few minutes, the King had success¬ 
fully garaged the car. Then he slipped hur¬ 
riedly back across Grosvenor Place. The road 
was happily still empty, and he reached the 
small, green, wooden door in the palace garden 
wall, without encountering anything more 
formidable than a stray black cat. A black 
cat which shared his taste for night walking. 
A purring black cat, which rubbed its head 
against his legs. A black cat for luck! 

Unlocking, and opening, the door, the King 
slipped into the palace garden. 

The door swung to behind him. 

All need for anxiety, for haste, and for pre¬ 
caution was now at an end. 

It was only just eight o’clock. 

Sauntering leisurely through the garden, the 


THE KING WHO 


King reached the palace without meeting any¬ 
one, on the way. Sometimes, on these oc¬ 
casions, he ran into gardeners, early at work, 
a policeman, patrolling the walks, or some 
member of the household staff; but such en¬ 
counters never caused him any anxiety. Why 
should not the King take a stroll in the garden, 
before breakfast? Had he not been known 
to dive into the garden lake for an early morn¬ 
ing swim, and had not the fact been duly 
recorded in all the newspapers? 

He entered the palace by the door through 
which he had escaped the night before, and so, 
mounting the private staircase, which led up 
to his own suite of rooms, regained his dressing 
room, unchallenged. 

The creation of a certain amount of neces¬ 
sary disorder in his bedroom, and a partial un¬ 
dressing, were the work of only a few minutes. 

Then he rang his bell, for which, he was 
well aware, a number of the palace servants 
would be, already anxiously listening. 

It was Smith, as the King had been at some 
pains to arrange, who answered this, the first 
summons of the official, Royal day. 

“Breakfast in the garden, in half an hour, 
Smith,” the King ordered. “See about that, at 
-C96)}- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


once. Then you can come back, and get my 
bath ready, and lay out the clothes.” 

Another bath was welcome, and refreshing, 
after the dust, and the excitement of the motor 
run. Smith’s choice of clothes was a new, 
grey, lounge suit, of most satisfactory cut, and 
finish. At the end of the half hour which he 
had allowed himself, the King left the dressing 
room, and passed down the private staircase, 
out into the sunlit garden, with an excellent 
appetite for his second breakfast. 

The breakfast table had been placed on one 
of the lawns, in the green shade thrown by a 
magnificent sycamore tree. A couple of gor¬ 
geously clad footmen were responsible for the 
service of the meal but they soon withdrew to 
a discreet distance. The unpretentious domes¬ 
tic life, traditional for so many years, in the 
palace, had made it comparatively easy for 
the King to reduce to a minimum the distaste¬ 
ful ceremony which the presence of servants 
adds to the simplest meal. 

A few personal letters, extracted by some 
early rising member of his secretarial staff, from 
the avalanche of correspondence in the Royal 
post bags, had been placed, in readiness for 
the King, on the breakfast table. One of these 
-C97> 


THE KING WHO 

letters bore the Sandringham postmark, and 
proved to be from his youngest sister, the 
Princess Elizabeth, who was still, officially, a 
school girl. It was a charming letter. With 
a frank and fearless affection, a spontaneous 
naivete, that pleased the King, the young 
Princess wrote to offer him her congratulations 
on his Coronation, congratulations which, she 
confessed, she had been too shy to voice in 
public, the day before. The letter touched 
the King. He read it through twice, allow¬ 
ing his eggs and bacon, and coffee, to grow 
cold, while he did so. There was a note of 
sincere feeling, of genuine affection, of sisterly 
pride in him, mingled with anxiety for his 
welfare, in the letter, which afforded a very 
agreeable contrast to the subservience of the 
Family in general, which had so jarred upon 
him, at the state banquet, the night before. 
This sister of his seemed likely to grow up into 
a true woman, a loyal and affectionate woman. 
She reminded him, in some odd way, of 
Judith. 

What would the future bring to this fresh, 
unspoilt, sister of his? “A woman, a woman 
with a heart, at the head of the procession.’ , 
Another of Uncle Bond’s phrases! What an 
insight the little man had into the possibilities 
.-C98> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


of positions, and situations, which he could 
only have known in imagination, in the 
imagination which he wasted on the construc¬ 
tion of his grotesquely improbable tales! He 
must do what he could for this fresh, unspoilt 
sister of his. That would be little enough in 
all conscience! Meanwhile he could write to 
her, and thank her for her letter. That was 
an attention which would please her. 

Producing a small, morocco bound, memoran¬ 
dum tablet, which he always carried about 
with him, in his waistcoat pocket, the King 
made a note to remind him to write to the 
Princess, in one of the intervals of his busy 
official day. 

“Write to Betty.” 

Then he resumed his attack on his eggs and 
bacon, and coffee. He did not notice that they 
were cold. This letter of his sister’s had 
turned his thoughts to—the Family! 

He was the Head of the Family now. Some¬ 
how, he had hardly realized the fact before. 
In the circumstances, it really behoved him, it 
would be absolutely necessary for him, to try 
to get to know something about the various 
members of the Family. His early distaste for 
Court life, his absorption in his own chosen 
profession, his frequent absences at sea, had 
•C99> 


THE KING WHO 


made him, of course, little better than a 
stranger to the rest of the Family. And, if 
they knew little or nothing about him, he 
knew less than nothing about them. The 
Prince had been the only member of the 
Family with whom he had had any real 
intimacy, since the far off nursery days they 
had all shared together, the only link between 
him and the others. And now the Prince was 
dead. 

This fresh, unspoilt sister of his would 
probably be worth knowing. Any girl, who 
recalled Judith, must be well worth knowing. 
And there was Lancaster! Lancaster was now, 
and was likely to remain, Heir Apparent. 
And William? William had looked a very 
bright, and engaging youngster, in his naval 
cadet’s uniform, the day before. The others? 
The others did not matter. But Lancaster, 
and William, and Betty, he must get to know. 
And now, at the outset of their new relation¬ 
ship, he had a favourable opportunity to take 
steps in the matter, which would not recur. 
He could let them know that he was their 
brother, as well as—the King! No doubt, 
they had their problems, and difficulties, just 
as he had his. He would do what he could, to 
make life easy for them. After all, it was 
•C100> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


quite enough that one member of the Family, 
at a time, should be condemned to the intoler¬ 
able isolation, and the dreary, treadmill round 
of the palace. 

Might he not usefully begin, at once, with 
Lancaster? He could send a message to Lan¬ 
caster, asking him to join him, at his informal 
lunch, at the palace, at noon. Lancaster had 
always seemed, to him, a dull, rather heavy, 
conventional, commonplace person; but there 
might be something human in him, after all. 
Perhaps, at an informal intimate encounter, he 
might be able to establish some contact with 
him, and get him to talk a little about himself. 
That would be interesting, and useful. Yes. 
Lancaster should provide his first experiment in 
Family research. 

Picking up his memorandum tablet again, 
from where he had dropped it on the break¬ 
fast table, the King made another note, to 
remind him to send the necessary message to 
Lancaster during the morning. 

“Send message to Lancaster.” 

The fact that he was not sure whether 
Lancaster, or even William, would still be in 
town, emphasized, in his own mind, his 
Ignorance of the Family. 

At this point, the gorgeously clad footmen 

;-C101> 


THE KING WHO 


approached the table. One of them removed 
the used dishes and plates. The other placed 
a stand of fresh fruit in front of the King. 

The King selected an apple, and proceeded 
to munch it like any schoolboy. 

It was a good apple. 

After all, life had its compensations! 

And, he suddenly realized now, he was be¬ 
ginning to take hold of his job, at last. This 
decision of his to tackle the Family, to get 
to know them personally, was his own decision. 
It was an expression of his own individuality, 
the exercise of his own will. The thought gave 
him a little thrill of pride, and pleasure. 
Perhaps, after all, there was going to be some 
scope, some freedom, for his own personality, 
in his place in the procession, more scope, 
more freedom than he had been inclined to 
think. His own shoulders, directed by his own 
brain, might make a difference in the jostling 
in the market-place. If the opportunity arose, 
he would put his weight into the scrimmage. 

The King finished his apple, and then filled 
and lit his pipe. 

The footmen cleared away the breakfast 
things. 

Soothed by tobacco, and cheered by the 
•C102> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


bright morning sunlight, the King leant back 
in his chair. 

It was another wonderful summer day. 
Overhead the sky was a luminous, cloudless 
blue. The sunlight lay golden on the green 
of the trees, and on the more vivid green of 
the lawn. The garden flower beds were gay 
with masses of brilliant hued blossoms. One 
or two birds whistled pleasantly from the 
neighbouring trees and bushes. A fat starling 
strutted about the lawn, digging for worms. 

A sense of general well-being stirred in the 
King, a sense of well-being which surprised 
him, for a moment, but only for a moment. 
It was always so, when he had been in Paradise, 
with Judith. Always he returned to the palace 
refreshed, and strengthened, with a new zest 
for, with a new appreciation of, the joy of 
mere living. Somehow, he must see to it, that 
his—promotion—did not interfere with his 
visits to Judith, and to Uncle Bond. He must 
see to it—in the interest of the State! He 
smiled as the words occurred to him. In the 
interest of the State? What would his fellow 
victims of the State, of the people, the old 
Duke of Northborough, for example, say to 
that, if they knew? But the words were 
-CIO 3> 


THE KING WHO 

justified. It was to the interest of the State 
that he, the King, should obtain, from time to 
time, the refreshment, the renewed strength, 
the zest, the sense of general well-being, of 
which he was so pleasantly conscious now. 

But, meanwhile, in the interest of the State, 
he must not, he could not afford to, waste any 
more of these golden, summer morning 
moments, idling here in the garden. The 
avalanche of correspondence in the post bags, 
and the official documents, and dispatches, 
which had accumulated, during the last day or 
two, owing to the special demands on his time 
made by the Coronation, were awaiting him in 
the palace. Long hours of desk work lay be¬ 
fore him. The thought did not displease him. 
He was in the mood for work. Here was some¬ 
thing he could put his weight into. Here was 
an opportunity for individual action, and self- 
expression, an opportunity for the exercise of 
his own judgment, driving power, decision. 

Knocking out his pipe, the King stood up 
abruptly. 

Then, whistling gaily, an indication of 
cheerfulness which had grown very rare with 
him, of late, he crossed the lawn, and re¬ 
entered the palace, on his way back to duty. 


-cioo 


CHAPTER VIII 


T was in the palace library, a 
large and lofty room on the 
ground floor, with a row of 
tall windows overlooking the 
garden, that the King spent his 
The library was strictly reserved 
for his use alone. The secretaries, who served 
his personal needs, were accommodated in a 
smaller room adjoining, which communicated 
with the library by folding doors. Although 
he was compelled to maintain, in this way, the 
isolation which was so little to his taste, it 
was characteristic of the King, in his dealings 
with his immediate subordinates, that he 
should take some pains not to appear too 
patently the man apart. This was the way 
they had taught him in the Navy. On more 
than one “happy ship,” on which he had 
served, the King had learnt that, to get good 
work out of subordinates, it was expedient to 
treat them as fellow workers, and equals, as 
men, although graded differently in rank, for 
the purposes of discipline, and pay. It was in 
more or less mechanical application of this 
-C 1052- 



office hours. 











THE KING WHO 

principle, that, still whistling gaily, he chose 
now, to enter the library, not directly, but 
through the secretaries’ room adjoining. 

In the airy, sunny, secretaries’ room, the low 
murmur of talk, and the clatter of typewriters, 
which seem inseparable from office work, 
ceased abruptly. There was a general, hur¬ 
ried, pushing back of chairs. Then the half 
dozen men and women in the room rose, 
hastily, to their feet. They had not expected 
to see the King so early. After the exhaust¬ 
ing Coronation ceremony of the day before, 
and the heavy demands on his strength, which 
the day, as a whole, had made, they had ex¬ 
pected him to rest. And here he was, a little 
before his usual time, if anything, buoyant, 
and vigorous, and laughing goodhumouredly at 
their surprise and confusion, ready apparently 
to attack the accumulation of papers which 
they had waiting for him. 

With a genial nod, which seemed to be 
directed to each man and woman present, 
individually, the King passed quickly through 
the room, into the library beyond, opening and 
shutting the intervening folding doors for him¬ 
self, with a sailor’s energy. 

The secretaries, men and women alike, 
turned, and looked at each other, and smiled. 

< 106 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


Although he was, of necessity, ignorant of 
the fact, the King had left interested, and very 
willing fellow workers behind him. 

The library was almost too large, and too 
lofty a room to be comfortably habitable. 
Worse still, in spite of its south aspect, and its 
row of tall windows, the eight or nine thou¬ 
sand volumes, which filled the wire fronted 
bookcases, which ran round two sides of the 
room, it always seemed to the King, gave it a 
dead and musty air. These books were for 
show, not for use. No one ever took them 
down from the shelves. No one ever read 
them. The erudite, silver-haired, palace 
librarian, himself, was more concerned with 
the rarities amongst them, and with his cat¬ 
alogue, than with their contents. But the 
books, musty monuments of dead men’s brains, 
as he regarded them, were not the King’s chief 
complaint. A number of Family portraits, 
which usurped the place of the bookcases, here 
and there, on the lofty walls, were his real 
grievance. A queer feeling of antagonism 
had grown up between him and these portraits. 
They always seemed to be watching him, 
watching him, and disapproving of him. The 
mere thought of them sufficed to check his 
good spirits, now, as he entered the library. 

-C107> 


THE KING WHO 


As he sat down at his writing table, he turned, 
and looked round at them defiantly. 

The writing table stood as close up to the 
row of tall windows, on the south side of the 
library, as was possible. The windows, with 
their pleasant view of the sunlit greenness of 
the garden, were on the King’s left, as he sat 
at the table. Straight in front of him were the 
undecorated, black oak panels of the folding 
doors which led into the secretaries’ room. On 
his right on the north wall of the library, were 
many of the books, and three of the portraits. 

First of all, there, in the corner by the 
folding doors, was a portrait of his grand¬ 
father, in the Coronation robes, and full re¬ 
galia, which he himself had been compelled 
to wear, the day before; a strong, bearded 
man, with a masterful mouth, which was not 
hidden by his beard. A King. Further along, 
on the right, past several square yards of books, 
hanging immediately above the ornate, carved, 
marble mantelpiece, in the centre of the north 
wall, was a portrait of his father, in Field 
Marshal’s uniform, with his breast covered 
with decorations; a man apart, isolated, lonely, 
remote, with a brooding light in his eyes. A 
King, too. Then, past more books, in the fur¬ 
thest corner of the room, by the door, came the 
-C 108 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


portrait of his mother, a stately, commanding 
figure, in a wonderful, ivory satin gown, mar¬ 
vellously painted. A Queen. And a hard 
woman, hard with her children, and harder 
still with herself, where what she had held to 
be a matter of Family duty had been con¬ 
cerned. And, last of all, in the centre of yet 
more books, on the east wall, behind him, was 
the portrait of his brother, the dead Prince of 
Wales, a more human portrait this, to see 
which, as he sat at the writing table, he had to 
swing right round in his revolving chair; the 
Prince, in the pink coat, white cord riding 
breeches, and top boots, of the hunting field, 
which had been his favourite recreation, lean¬ 
ing a little forward, it seemed, and smiling out 
of the canvas with the smile which had won 
him so much, and such well deserved popu¬ 
larity. 

All these had borne the Family burden, with¬ 
out complaint. All these had accepted the 
great responsibility of their position, without 
question, and even with a certain Royal pride. 
They had made innumerable, never ending 
sacrifices. 

And he? An unwilling King? A half¬ 
hearted King? 

No wonder they disapproved of him! 

< 109 ^ 


THE KING WHO 

The King swung round, impatiently, in his 
chair, back to the writing table again. 

An unwilling King, a half-hearted King, he 
might be; but, at any rate, he could labour. 
He could put his full weight into his work. 
He could show, in his own way, even if it was 
not the Family way, even if the Family dis¬ 
approved of him, that he, too, was a man, that 
he, too, had individuality, force of character, 
driving power, decision— 

Portfolios, and files, of confidential State 
documents had been arranged, in neat piles, 
and in a sequence which was a matter of a 
carefully organized routine, on the left of the 
writing table. On the right stood a number of 
shining, black japanned dispatch boxes, and 
one or two black leather dispatch cases, of the 
kind carried by the King’s Messengers. The 
“In” boxes for correspondence, in the centre 
of the table, were filled with a formidable ac¬ 
cumulation of letters. The “Out” boxes, be¬ 
side them, looked, at the moment, in the bril¬ 
liant, morning sunlight, emptier than emptiness. 

An almost bewildering array of labour sav¬ 
ing devices, stamping, sealing, and filing ma¬ 
chines, completed the furnishing of the table. 
These, the King swept, at once, contemptu¬ 
ously to one side. The telephone instrument, 
rCHOa- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


which stood on a special shelf at his elbow, was 
the only labour saving device he ever used. 
A plain, and rather shabby fountain pen, and 
two or three stumps of coloured pencil, were 
the instruments with which he did his work. 
It was not until he had found these favourite 
weapons of attack, and placed them ready to 
his hand, on his right, that he set himself to 
deal with the accumulation of papers in front 
of him. 

The letters in the “In” boxes were his first 
concern. These he had merely to approve, 
by transferring them to the “Out” boxes, ready 
for posting. It was a transfer which he could 
safely have made, which he very often did 
make, without reading a single letter. His 
personal correspondence was in the capable 
hands of Lord Blaine, who had served his fa¬ 
ther, as private secretary, for many years be¬ 
fore him. But this morning, in his new de¬ 
termination to find an outlet for his own 
individuality, the King elected to read each of 
the letters through carefully. Lord Blaine had 
acquired a happy tact, in the course of his long 
experience, in answering the letters, from all 
sorts and conditions of people, which found 
their way into the Royal post bags, which was 
commonly considered beyond criticism. 
<lll> 


THE KING WHO 


None the less, now, as he read the letters, a 
conviction grew upon the King that not a few 
of the courtly old nobleman’s phrases had be¬ 
come altogether stereotyped. 

One letter, in particular, addressed to some 
humble old woman, in a provincial almshouse, 
congratulating her on her attainment of a cen¬ 
tenary birthday, seemed to him far too formal. 
The old woman had written a quaint, and 
wonderfully clear letter, in her own handwriting 
to the King. Seizing his favourite stump of 
blue pencil, he added, on the spur of the mo¬ 
ment, two or three unconventional sentences 
of his own, to Lord Blaine’s colourless reply— 

“I am writing this myself. I don’t write as 
well as you do, do I? But I thought you might 
like to have my autograph as one of your hun¬ 
dredth birthday presents. This is how I write 
it— 

“Alfred. R. I.” 

Laughing softly to himself the King tossed 
the letter, thus amended, into one of the “Out” 
boxes. 

The little incident served to revive his pre¬ 
vious good spirits. 

Lord Blaine would probably disapprove. 

But the old woman would be pleased! 

< 112 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


From the correspondence boxes, he turned, 
in due course, to the portfolios and files on the 
left of the table. These contained reports, 
and routine summaries from the various Gov¬ 
ernment departments, copies of official corre¬ 
spondence, one or two Government publica¬ 
tions, and certain minor Cabinet papers, and 
they required more concentrated attention. He 
had to make himself familiar with the contents 
of the various documents, and this involved 
careful reading. An abstract, or a skilful pre¬ 
cis, prepared by his secretaries, and attached 
to the papers, occasionally saved his time and 
labour; but even these had to be read, and the 
reading took time. Happily, here, as before, 
little or no writing, on his part, was necessary. 
An initial, and a date, to show that he had 
seen the document in question, a few words of 
comment, or a curt request for more informa¬ 
tion, were the only demands made on his blue 
pencil. 

Documents, and copies of correspondence, 
from the Foreign and Dominion Offices, held 
the King’s attention longest. To him these 
were not “duty” papers, as were so many of 
the others. The place names, the names of 
the foreign diplomats, and of the Dominion 
statesmen, and administrators, which occurred 
.-C1133- 


THE KING WHO 


in these papers, were familiar to him, thanks 
to the many ports, and countries, the many 
men and cities, he had seen in his varied naval 
service. Here and there, in these papers, a 
single word would shine out, at times, from the 
typewritten page in front of him, which con¬ 
jured up, a vision, perhaps, of one of the 
world’s most beautiful roadsteads, or a mental 
picture of the strong and rugged features of 
some man, who was a power, a living force, 
amongst his fellows, in the wilder places of the 
earth, or a vivid memory of the cool and spa¬ 
cious rooms of some Eastern club house where 
men, who lived close to the elemental facts of 
life, gathered to make merry, and to show un¬ 
stinted hospitality to the stranger. Here he 
was on sure ground. Here, he knew, his com¬ 
ments were often of real value. He had seen 
the country. He had met, and talked with, 
the men on the spot. Frequently, his knowl¬ 
edge of the questions raised in these papers 
was quite as comprehensive, and as intimate, 
as that of the oldest permanent officials in 
Whitehall. 

At the end of an hour and a half of hard and 
methodical work, the King became suddenly 
aware that he had made considerable progress 
-CllO 


WENT ON STRIKE 


in his attack on the accumulation of papers in 
front of him. 

Leaning back in his chair he touched a bell 
which stood on the table beside him. 

The folding doors, leading into the secre¬ 
taries' room, were immediately opened, and a 
tall, fair, good looking young man, who was 
chiefly remarkable for the extreme nicety of 
his immaculate morning dress, entered the 
library, in answer to the summons. 

The King indicated the now full “Out” boxes, 
with a gesture, which betrayed his satisfaction, 
and even suggested a certain boyish pride, in 
the visible result of his labour. 

“Anything more coming in?” he enquired. 

“Not at the moment, I think, sir. The Gov¬ 
ernment Circulations are all unusually late 
this morning, sir,” the tall young man replied, 
approaching the table, and picking up the 
“Out” boxes for removal to the secretaries' 
room. 

The King was filling his pipe now. He felt 
that he had earned a smoke. 

“Bought any cars, lately, Blunt?” he en¬ 
quired, with a merry twinkle in his eyes. 

He had suddenly realized that this was Geof¬ 
frey Blunt, the nominal tenant of the garage in 
-C11S3- 


THE KING WHO 


Lower Grosvenor Place, and the nominal pur¬ 
chaser of the car housed there. 

Geoffrey Blunt laughed, and then blushed, 
as he became conscious of the liberty into 
which the King had betrayed him. 

“We must organize one of our little incognito 
excursions, in the near future, Blunt, I think,” 
the King murmured, looking out through the 
tall windows, on his left, at the sunny, morning 
glory of the garden. “We will run out into 
the country.” 

At the moment, his thoughts were in Para¬ 
dise. Judith and the Imps, in all probability, 
would be in the hayfields— 

“You must be ready for a holiday, sir,” 
Geoffrey Blunt ventured to remark. “You 
took us all by surprise, this morning, sir. 
After yesterday, we did not expect to see you, 
so early, this morning, sir.” 

“No. And that reminds me of something 
I wanted to say,” the King replied, looking 
round from the windows, and speaking with a 
sudden, marked change of manner. “I can see 
by the papers which you had waiting for me, 
this morning, that you people have all been 
keeping hard at it during the last day or two. 
I appreciate that. Tell your colleagues, in the 
next room, that I expressed my appreciation. 
-C1163- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


That is all now. Let me see today’s Circula¬ 
tions, when they do arrive. I do not want to 
be faced with an accumulation of papers, like 
this morning’s, again.” 

Flushing with pleasure at this praise, Geof¬ 
frey Blunt bowed, and withdrew, taking the 
“Out” boxes with him. 

The King smiled to himself as he lit his pipe. 

“But who is there to praise me?” he 
muttered. 

Leaning back in his chair, for a moment or 
two, he gave himself up to the luxury of the 
true smoker’s idleness. 

But had there not been something that he 
had meant to do, in any interval of rest, like 
this, which might occur during the morning? 

The morocco bound memorandum tablet, 
which he produced from his waistcoat pocket, 
answered the question— 

“Write to Betty.” 

“Send message to Lancaster.” 

It was too late to send any message to Lan¬ 
caster now. A couple of hours was not suffi¬ 
cient notice to give him of an invitation to 
lunch. He was not intimate enough with 
Lancaster to treat him in so offhand a manner. 
It would be an abuse of his new position, a 
tactical mistake. The lunch must be arranged 
<U7> 


THE KING WHO 


for tomorrow. Crossing off his original note, 
he scribbled another— 

Lancaster to lunch tomorrow. See him, per¬ 
sonally, this afternoon, or this evening. 

But he could write to Betty! 

Clearing a space on the writing table, by 
pushing to one side the less urgent documents 
and papers, which he had retained for subse¬ 
quent attention, he picked up his fountain 
pen; then, when he had found, after some 
search, a sheet of note paper sufficiently plain 
and unostentatious, to suit his taste, he began 
to write— 

Dear Betty, 

Your letter this morning gave me great 
pleasure. I do not know that there is very much 
pleasure in this business of being King— 

But he got no further. 

The folding doors facing him were suddenly 
reopened. 

Then there entered, not Geoffrey Blunt, nor 
any other member of the secretarial staff, but 
—the old Duke of Northborough. 

The King looked up with a surprise which 
at once gave place to a smile of welcome. 
This was contrary to all etiquette. But he 
*C118> 


WENT ON STRIKE 

was glad to see the old Duke. And it was in 
deference to his own repeated requests on the 
subject that the veteran Prime Minister had 
lately consented to make his visits to the pal¬ 
ace, in working hours, as informal as possible. 

Putting down his pipe, and his pen, the King 
stood up to receive the old statesman. 

The Duke, as if to atone for the abruptness 
of his entry, paused for a moment on the 
threshold of the large and lofty room, and 
bowed, with a slightly accentuated formality. 

The folding doors behind him were closed 
by unseen hands. 

Then he advanced, into the room, towards 
the King. 


-C1193- 


CHAPTER IX 


N unusually tall man, and a big 
man, with a breadth of chest, 
and a pair of shoulders, which 
had made him conspicuous, in 
every assembly, from his youth 
up, the Duke still held himself erect, and 
moved in a big way. Now, as he advanced 
into the large and lofty room, the thought 
came to the King, that here was a man for 
whom the room was neither too large, nor too 
lofty. While he himself was apt to feel lost 
in the library, overpowered by its size, and op¬ 
pressed by the weight of its inanimate objects, 
the Duke moved as if in his natural and fitting 
surroundings. The force, the vigour, of the 
wonderful old man at once relegated the huge 
room to its proper place in the background. 
The effect was very much as if the library had 
been a stage scene, in which the scenery had 
predominated, until this, the moment when a 
great actor entered, and drew all eyes. 

It was characteristic of the Duke that he 
should be dressed with a carelessness bordering 
on deliberate eccentricity. The roomy, com- 

-C120> 









WENT ON STRIKE 


fortable, sombre black office suit, which he was 
wearing, looked undeniably shabby, and hung 
loosely on his giant frame. His head was 
large. His hair, which he wore a little longer 
than most men, snow-white now but still abun¬ 
dant, was brushed back from his broad fore¬ 
head in a crescent wave. His features were 
massive, and strongly moulded. His nose was 
salient, formidable, pugnacious. His mouth 
was wide. His lips had even more than the 
usual fulness common to most public speakers. 
But his eyes were the dominant feature of his 
face. His eyebrows were still black, thick, 
and aggressively bushy. Underneath them, 
his eyes shone out, luminous and a clear blue, 
with the peculiar, piercing, penetrative qual¬ 
ity, which seems to endow its possessor with 
the power to read the secret, unspoken, 
thoughts of other men. 

“Enter—the Duke!” the King exclaimed, 
with an engagingly boyish smile, as the vet¬ 
eran Prime Minister approached the writing 
table. “The Duke could not have entered at 
a more opportune moment. I was just taking 
an ‘easy.* Shall we stay here, or go out into 
the garden, or up on to the roof?” 

“We will stay here, I think, if the decision 
is to rest with me, sir,” the Duke replied, in 
< 121 > 


THE KING WHO 

his sonorous, deep, and yet attractively mellow 
voice. “I bring news, sir. As usual, I have 
come to talk!” 

“Good,” the King exclaimed. “Allow me--” 

Placing his own revolving chair in position 
for the Duke, a little way back from the writing 
table, as he spoke, he invited him to be seated, 
with a gesture. 

Then he perched himself on the writing 
table, facing the old statesman. 

The Duke settled himself, deliberately, in 
the revolving chair, swinging it round to the 
right, so that he could escape the brilliant, 
summer sunshine, which was streaming into 
the room, through the row of tall windows, on 
his left. His side face, as it was revealed now 
to the King, wrinkled and lined by age as it 
was, had the compelling, masterful appeal, the 
conspicuous, uncompromising strength, of an 
antique Roman bust. 

“I had just begun a letter to my sister, the 
Princess Elizabeth, when you came in,” the 
King remarked, maintaining the boyish atti¬ 
tude, which he could never avoid, which, some¬ 
how, he never wished to avoid, in the Duke’s 
presence. “It suddenly occurred to me, this 
morning, that I am the Head of the Family 
now. I am a poor substitute for my immedi- 
< 122 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


ate predecessors, I am afraid.” He looked 
up, as he spoke, at the portraits on the oppo¬ 
site side of the room. “But I have decided 
that I must do my best in my new command.” 

The Duke looked up in turn. Following 
the King’s glance, his luminous, piercing 
eyes rested, for a moment or two, on the 
portraits. 

“None of your immediate predecessors were 
ever called upon to play so difficult a part, as 
you have to play, sir,” he said. 

Something in the Duke’s manner, a note of 
unexpected vehemence in his sonorous voice, 
arrested the King’s wandering attention. 

His boyishness fell from him. 

“What is it?” he asked. “I remember, now, 
you said you brought news. Is it—bad 
news?” 

“No. It is good news, sir. I could not 
bring you better news,” the Duke replied. 
“But, I am afraid, in spite of all my warnings, 
you are not prepared for the announcement 
which I have to make.” 

He paused there, for a moment, and looked 
away from the King. 

“The storm, which we have been expecting, 
for so long, sir,” he added, slowly, dwelling on 
each word, “is about to break.” 

-C1233- 


THE KING WHO 


The King started, and winced, as if he had 
been struck. 

“The storm?” he exclaimed. 

“Is about to break, sir,” the Duke repeated. 

There was a long, tense pause. 

Then, suddenly, the King laughed, a bitter, 
ironic laugh. 

“I have been a fool,” he exclaimed. “In 
my mind, the glass was ‘Set Fair.’ I had— 
forgotten—the storm! I was going to take 
hold of my job. I was going to put my full 
weight into my work. I was even going to cul¬ 
tivate the Family, as I was telling you—” 

He checked himself abruptly. 

“What is going to happen?” he asked. 

The Duke drew out his watch, an old- 
fashioned, gold-cased, half hunter, and looked 
at it judicially. 

“It is now nearly eleven o’clock. In an 
hour’s time, at twelve noon precisely, a uni¬ 
versal, lightning strike will take effect, through¬ 
out the length and breadth of the country, 
sir,” he replied. “All the public services will 
cease to run. The individual workman, no 
matter where, or how, he is employed, as the 
clock strikes twelve, will lay down his tools, 
put on his coat, and leave his work. Such a 
strike is no new thing, you will say. But this 


WENT ON STRIKE 


is no ordinary strike, sir. Although whole sec¬ 
tions of trades unionists, up and down the coun¬ 
try, we have good ground to believe, have no 
very clear idea why they are striking, al¬ 
though many of their local leaders appear to 
have been deceived into the belief that the 
strike has been called for purely industrial 
reasons, we have indubitable evidence that it 
is designed as a first step in the long delayed 
conspiracy to secure the political ascendency 
of the proletariat. A little company of revolu¬ 
tionary extremists have, at last, captured the 
labour machine, sir. It is they who are be¬ 
hind this strike. Behind them, I need hardly 
tell you, are the Internationalists, and the 
Communists, on the Continent, ready, and 
eager, to supply arms, ammunition, and money, 
if the opportunity arises, on a lavish scale. 

“Although we have been expecting the storm 
for so long, this strike form, which it has 
taken, I may confess to you, sir, has come to 
us as something of a surprise. The strike 
leaders, I surmise, are relying, very largely, on 
that surprise effect, for their success. They 
imagine, they hope, no doubt, that they will 
find the Government, elated and thrown off 
their guard by the success of the Coronation, 
unprepared; that, in the chaos, which they be- 
-Cl 25> 


THE KING WHO 


lieve must ensue, the whole nation will be at 
their mercy; that, having demonstrated their 
power, they will be able to dictate their own 
terms. What those terms would be, sir, there 
can be no question. Internationalism. Com¬ 
munism. A Republic. That persistent delu¬ 
sion of the fanatic, and the unpractical idealist 
—the Perfect State. Armed revolt was their 
original plan, sir. Thanks to the vigilance of 
our Secret Service Agents, that contingency 
has, I believe, been obviated. But the Red 
Flag is still their symbol, sir. In the absence 
of arms, a bloodless revolution appears now to 
be their final, desperate dream. They will 
have a rude awakening, sir. In less than 
twenty-four hours they will be—crushed! 

“You will remember the alternative, protec¬ 
tive schemes, for use in the event of a national 
emergency, which I had the honour to lay be¬ 
fore you, for your consideration, a few weeks 
ago, sir? One of those schemes, the ‘Gamma’ 
scheme, is already in force. At a full meeting 
of the Cabinet, held in Downing Street, this 
morning, sir, the immediate operation of the 
‘Gamma’ scheme, and the declaration of Mar¬ 
tial Law, on which it is based, were unani¬ 
mously approved. The military, and the naval 
authorities are already making their disposi- 
-C126> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


tions. By this time, the Atlantic, the North 
Sea, and the Channel Fleets, will be concen¬ 
trating. The closing of all the ports, and the 
blockade of the whole coast line, provided for 
in the scheme, will follow automatically. The 
military authorities, you will remember, are 
to take over the control of the railways, avia¬ 
tion centres, and telegraphic and wireless sta¬ 
tions, and support, and reinforce, the police, as 
required. The Home Secretary assures me 
that the police can be relied upon implicitly 
to do their duty. The Chief of the General 
Staff declares that the Army, regrettably small 
as it is, is sufficient to meet all the demands 
which are likely to be made upon it. Of the 
Navy, there is no need for me to speak to you, 
sir. In the circumstances, I feel justified in 
assuring you, that we have the situation well 
in hand.” 

The Duke stood up. To him, the orator, 
the practised debater, speech always came more 
easily, and naturally, when he was on his feet. 
He turned now, and faced the King, towering 
head and shoulders above him, a formidable, 
and dominating figure. When he spoke again, 
there was an abrupt, compelling, personal note 
in his sonorous voice. 

“I want you to leave the palace, sir. I want 
< 127 > 


THE KING WHO 

you to remove the Court, at once, into the 
country,” he said. “Do not misunderstand 
me, sir. I do not believe that your person is 
in any danger. I do not anticipate, as I have 
already indicated, that we shall be called 
upon to meet armed revolt. In any case, Lon¬ 
doners are proverbially loyal. But there will 
be rioting, and window smashing, in places, no 
doubt. Something of the sort may be at¬ 
tempted, here, at the palace. In the circum¬ 
stances, it will be as well, that you should be 
elsewhere. 

“In urging you to leave the palace, and to 
remove the Court into the country, I have, too, 
another, and a more important motive, sir,” he 
continued. “It is, of course, a fundamental 
condition, a constitutional truism, of our demo¬ 
cratic monarchy, that the King must take no 
side. How far that consideration must govern 
the King’s actions, when his own position is 
directly attacked, is a question which, I imag¬ 
ine, very few of our leading jurists would care 
to be called upon to decide! But I attach the 
very greatest importance to the preservation of 
your absolute neutrality, in the present crisis, 
sir. When the impending storm has spent its 
force, and the danger, such as it is, has sub¬ 
sided, there will be a considerable body of peo- 
-C 128 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


pie, up and down the country, who will contend 
that the Government have acted precipitately, 
unconstitutionally, and with wholly unneces¬ 
sary violence. In meeting such criticism, I 
wish to be able to emphasize the fact that the 
Government have acted throughout on their 
own responsibility, on my responsibility, with¬ 
out any reference to you at all, sir. I do not 
propose to advance, on your behalf, the time- 
honoured excuse that His Majesty accepted the 
advice tendered to him by his advisers. I 
propose to emphasize the fact that you at once 
removed the Court into the country, and took 
no part whatever in the suppression of the re¬ 
bellion. In the result, your position will be 
maintained inviolate, but you will not share in 
the unpopularity, and the odium, which a dem¬ 
onstration of strength inevitably, and invari¬ 
ably, evokes. This is why I said that you have 
a more difficult part to play than any of your 
immediate predecessors were ever called upon 
to play, sir. Although the battle is joined, and 
you are so intimately concerned with its result, 
you will have to stand on one side, and take no 
part in the conflict. And you are a young 
man, and a high spirited young man. You will 
resent your neutrality. 

“But I am the lightning conductor, sir! It is 

<U9y 


THE KING WHO 


my duty, as I see it, and I regard it as the 
honour of my life, to take the full shock of the 
lightning flash, so that the Crown may remain 
on your head unshaken. And the Crown will 
not only remain on your head unshaken. It 
will be more firmly fixed there than before. In 
twenty-four, or forty-eight, hours, at the most, 
sir, you will be more surely established on the 
throne than any of your immediate prede¬ 
cessors. 

“That is why I said, at the outset, that this 
is good news which I have brought you, sir; 
that I could not bring you better news. This 
is good news, sir. Never have I dared to hope 
that the battle, which we have been expecting 
so long, would be joined, at a time, and on 
ground, so wholly favourable to the forces of 
law and order. I have no doubt of the ade¬ 
quacy, and the smooth working of the' ‘Gamma 7 
scheme, in the existing crisis, sir. It will be 
many years, probably the whole of your reign, 
perhaps a generation, before the revolutionary 
extremists in this country recover from the 
overwhelming disaster towards which they are 
rushing at this moment . 77 

It was then, and not until then, that the King 
slipped down from his perch on the writing 
table to his feet. 


<1S0> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


Instinctively, he turned to the row of tall 
windows, on his right. 

He wanted light. He wanted air. 

Outside, in the palace garden, the brilliant 
morning sunshine lay golden on the green of 
the grass, and on the darker green of the trees. 

The whistling of a thrush, perched on a tree 
near the windows, seemed stridently audible. 

Behind him, beside the writing table, the 
Duke stood, motionless, silent, expectant. 

The magnetism for which the veteran Prime 
Minister was notorious, the magnetism which 
he seemed to be able to invoke at will, had 
not failed him, whilst he talked. For the time 
being, he had completely dominated the King. 
But now, the King’s own personality re¬ 
asserted itself, with all the force of a recoil. 

A bitter realization of his own impotence, of 
his own insignificance, was the King’s first 
personal thought. 

It was to be as he had feared, as he had al¬ 
ways known, it would be. 

The battle was joined, the fight for his place 
in the procession was about to begin, in the 
market-place, and he, the man most concerned, 
was the one man who could not take a side. 

The Duke had gone out of his way to em¬ 
phasize that fact. 




THE KING WHO 


“I attach the very greatest importance to 
the preservation of your absolute neutrality in 
the present crisis, sir.” 

Neutrality! The most contemptible part a 
live man could play. 

“Fight for your place in the procession, 
Alfred.” 

He was not to be allowed to fight. 

The decision whether he should fight for his 
place, step to one side, or fall out, altogether, 
to the rear, had been taken out of his hands. 

The desire for self-assertion, for self- 
expression, which he had felt, so strongly, only 
an hour or two previously, flamed up, hotly, 
anew, within the King. An unwilling King, a 
half-hearted King, he might be; but to be a 
nonentity, a man of no account— 

The very workman, the individual workman, 
who—in less than an hour now—as the clock 
struck twelve, would lay down his tools, put 
on his coat, and leave his work, was of more 
account than he was! 

Ignorant, and deceived, as he might be, the 
individual workman, in striking, would be as¬ 
serting himself, expressing himself. 

And he? 

He could not even strike! 

If only he could have gone on strike! 
<IS2> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


The fantastic idea caught the King’s fevered 
fancy. It was in tune with the bitter, wilful, 
rebellious mood which had swept over him. 
He could not resist the temptation of giving it 
ironic expression. 

“It seems to me, if there is one man, in the 
whole country, who would be justified in strik¬ 
ing, in leaving his work, I am that man!” he 
exclaimed. “I never wanted, I never expected 
to have to fill—my present command. To be 
‘a sailor, not a Prince,’ was always my idea. 
Do people, do these people, who are coming 
out on strike, and hope to run up the Red Flag, 
imagine that I get any pleasure, that I get 
anything but weariness, out of—my place in 
the procession? If I followed my own wishes 
now—I should strike, too! I should be the 
reddest revolutionary of them all. Liberty, 
Equality, and Fraternity is their war cry, isn’t 
it? Those are the very things I want!” 

The Duke smiled grimly. 

“Where will you remove the Court, sir?” he 
asked. “To Windsor? Or to Sandringham?” 

The King began to drum, impatiently, with 
his fingers, on the window pane. 

The Duke’s pointed impenetrability, his per¬ 
sistence, irritated him, at the moment, almost 
beyond his endurance. 

< 133 > 


THE KING WHO 

Of course he would have to do as the Duke 
wished. The Duke was the lightning conduc¬ 
tor. He would have to fall in with the Duke’s 
suggestions. His suggestions? His orders! 
And yet— 

Windsor? Sandringham? 

Windsor and Sandringham were merely al¬ 
ternative cells in the same intolerable prison 
house! 

Perhaps it was the blithe whistling of the 
thrush perched on the tree near the win¬ 
dows; perhaps it was the sunlit peace of the 
palace garden—whatever the cause, the King 
thought, suddenly, and irrelevantly, of Para¬ 
dise. 

And then the irrelevance of his thought dis* 
appeared. 

A man was talking beside him. 

It was not the Duke. 

It was Uncle Bond. 

“Whether you fight for your place or not, 
whether you come out at the head, or the tail, 
of the procession, wherever the head and the 
tail may be, whether you step to one side, or 
fall out altogether, whatever happens to you, 
my boy, Judith and I, will always be glad to 
welcome you to the inn at the corner, and give 
-C130- 


WENT ON STRIKE 

you a seat at our window. You will remember 
that!” 

A thrill of exultation ran through the King. 

Here, surely, was an opening, an opportun¬ 
ity, for the self-assertion, the self-expression, 
which he so ardently desired! 

Where should he go, now that the time had 
come for him to step out of the procession, but 
into Paradise, to Judith and to Uncle Bond, 
to stand beside them, at their window, in the 
old inn, at the corner of the market-place, the 
old inn, on the signboard of which was written 
in letters of gold “Content”? 

If he must seek a rural retreat, an asylum, 
a city of refuge, what better retreat could he 
have than Judith’s and Uncle Bond’s oasis, in 
Paradise, where no strangers ever came? 

In this matter, at any rate, he could assert 
himself. 

In this matter, at any rate, he would have 
his own way. 

Swinging round from the windows, he 
fronted the Duke, flushed with excitement 
wholly defiant. 

“I will leave the palace, at once, as you 
wish,” he announced. “I have no alternative, 
of course. I recognize that. But I shall leave 
-C135> 


THE KING WHO 


the Court behind, too! Neither Windsor, nor 
Sandringham, attract me. I begin to feel the 
need of—a holiday. I shall run out into the 
country. I have—friends in the country.” 

He laughed recklessly. 

“This is my way of going on strike!” 

An odd, dancing light, which almost sug¬ 
gested a suddenly awakened sense of humour, 
shone, for a moment, in the Duke’s luminous, 
piercing eyes. 

But he pursed up his lips doubtfully, 

“It is a private, incognito visit, that you are 
suggesting, I take it, sir?” he remarked. “In 
the present crisis, such a visit would involve— 
serious risks. But, I am bound to confess, that 
it would not be without—compensating ad¬ 
vantages!” His grim smile returned. “No 
one would know where you were. And your 
departure from the palace, which must not be 
delayed, would attract little or no attention. 
If you left the Court behind you, as you pro¬ 
pose, you would merely take one or two 
members of the houshold staff with you, I 
presume?” 

“I shall take nobody with me. I shall go 
by myself,” the King declared. 

Yes. In this matter, at any rate, he would 
have his own way. 

.-C1363- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


The Duke shot one of his keen, searching 
glances at the King. Then he swung round 
on his heel, and paced slowly down the whole 
length of the library. 

The King watched him, fascinated, curious, 
exalted. 

At the far end of the room, the Duke paused, 
turned, and retraced his steps. 

His first words, as he halted, once again, be¬ 
side the writing table absolutely took the 
King’s breath away. 

“I shall offer no opposition whatever to your 
reckless little excursion, sir,” he said. “I sur¬ 
prise you, sir? I hoped to surprise you! But 
this is no time, there is no time, for—explana¬ 
tions. Reckless as your proposal is, the more 
I think about it, the more conscious I become 
of its many advantages. But, with your per¬ 
mission, sir, I will attach two conditions to 
your—holiday.” Again he smiled grimly. 
“In the first place, I must know where you are 
going, so that I can communicate with you, at 
once, when the need arises. In the second 
place I will ask you to honour me with an 
undertaking that you will remain in your rural 
retreat, until I have communicated with you.” 

The King could hardly believe his own ears. 
That the Duke should accept, should even ex- 
-C137XK 


THE KING WHO 

press a guarded approval of his rebellion— 
that was what his reckless proposal amounted 
to!—was wholly unbelievable. It could not 
be true! 

A sudden sense of unreality, the conscious¬ 
ness, which had been so frequently with him, 
of late, here in the palace, that he was living 
in a dream, a wild, grotesque, nightmare 
dream, swept over the King. 

Of all the unreal scenes in his dream, this 
surely, was the most unreal! 

He had expected opposition, and argument. 
What he had wanted, he realized now, was op¬ 
position and argument— 

But he had gone too far to withdraw. And 
he had no wish to withdraw. At any rate he 
would see Judith. He would see Uncle Bond. 
He would be—in Paradise— 

Without speaking, words at the moment, 
were quite beyond him, the King drew up his 
revolving chair to the writing table, once again, 
and sat down. Picking up the sheet of note- 
paper on which he had begun to write to his 
sister—how long ago that seemed!—he tore off 
the unused half of the paper, crumpling the 
other half up in his hand. Then he found his 
pen, and wrote— 


-038:}- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


“James Bond Esq., 

Mymm’s Manor, 

Mymm’s Valley, 

Mymms, 

Hertfordshire.” 

Turning in his chair, he handed the half 
sheet of paper to the Duke. 

“That will be my address. I shall stay 
there,” he said. 

The Duke glanced at the paper, and then 
folded it up neatly, and slipped it into his 
pocket. 

“You have no time to lose, sir,” he said. “It 
is already nearly half past eleven. Within 
half an hour, just before noon, all civilian 
traffic, in and out of London, will cease. The 
police, and the military will be in control in 
the streets. Barriers will be erected on all 
the roads. Only Government traffic will be 
allowed to pass. You have time to get away, 
but only just time.” 

The King sprang up to his feet, and darted 
across the room. He was, all at once, wild to 
get away, wild to get away from the Duke, 
from the palace, from himself, from this unreal, 
grotesque, nightmare life of his— 

But, half way across the room, he paused, 
-C139> 


THE KING WHO 

and swung round, and faced the Duke yet once 
again. 

A sudden, belated twinge of compunction, 
a whisper of the conscience which he had all 
this time been defying, had impelled him to 
think of the Duke. 

“Am I letting you down, Duke?” he ex¬ 
claimed impulsively. “After—all you have 
done for me—I wouldn’t let you down for 
worlds! ” 

A smile, in which there was no trace of 
grimness, lit up the old Duke’s rugged, massive 
features. 

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “You are not 
letting me down, sir. You can enjoy your— 
reckless little excursion—with an easy mind. 
But I did not like, and I do not like, your use 
of that ill-omened word 'strike,’ sir,—even in 
jest! Remembering the language of the Serv¬ 
ice, in which, like you, I had the honour to be 
trained, I prefer to say that you are—proceed¬ 
ing on short leave of absence, shall we say, sir? 
It will only be a short leave of absence, sir. 
Twenty-four, or forty-eight, hours, at the most. 
You will do well, I think, sir, to remember 
that!” 

Incredible as the whole scene was, there 
could be no doubt about the old statesman’s 
;-ci4o> 


WENT ON STRIKE 

entire sincerity. The King’s last fear, his 
last scruple fell from him. In his relief he 
laughed aloud, lightheartedly. 

“Call it whatever you like, Duke,” he ex¬ 
claimed. “But, for me, it is—my way of go¬ 
ing on strike!” 

And with that, he turned, and darted out of 
the room. 

Left alone, the Duke remained motionless, 
for a minute or two. The smile, which the 
King’s impulsive ingenuousness had evoked, 
still lingered on his lips; but his piercing eyes 
were clouded now, and heavy with thought. 

Suddenly he turned to the writing table, and, 
picking up the telephone instrument, took down 
the receiver. 

The whole manner of the man changed with 
this decisive little action. 

There was a curt, commanding, masterful 
ring in his sonorous voice, as he gave his direc¬ 
tions to the operator at the palace exchange. 

“The Duke of Northborough is speaking. I 
want Scotland Yard, and the War Office, at 
once, in that order. You will give me ‘prior¬ 
ity.’ Shut out all other calls.” 


:-cuiy 


CHAPTER X 



FEELING of lighthearted holi¬ 
day irresponsibility, such as he 
had not known for months, for 
years as it seemed to him, was 
with the King as he darted out 
of the library. He raced along the palace cor¬ 
ridors like a schoolboy released from school. 
The palm and orange tree decorated lounge, 
half vestibule, and half conservatory, from 
which ran the private staircase leading up to his 
own suite of rooms, was his first objective. He 
had intended to make a wild dash up to his 
rooms to secure some sort of hat, and the dust 
coat, in which he usually escaped from the 
palace. Happily, now, as he entered the 
lounge, his eyes were caught by a tweed cap, 
which he wore sometimes in the garden, which 
was lying on a side table, where he had tossed 
it, a day or two ago. Laughing triumphantly, 
he picked up this cap, and crammed it down 
on to his head. Then he darted out of the 
lounge, through the open glass door, into the 
garden. 


-C142)}- 









WENT ON STRIKE 


In the garden, the air was heavy with the rich 
scents of the blossoming shrubs and flowers. 
The brilliant morning sunshine struck the King, 
as he hurried along the paths, with almost a 
tropical force. In spite of the heat, as soon 
as he was sure that he was securely screened 
by the shrubberies, he broke, once again, into 
a run. Lighthearted, and irresponsible, as his 
mood was, he was conscious of the need for 
haste. His running soon brought him, flushed, 
and panting a little, but in no real distress, to 
the small, green painted, wooden door, in the 
boundary wall, at the far end of the garden. 
Hurriedly producing his keys, he unlocked the 
door, and swung it open. A moment later, as 
the door, operated by its spring, closed behind 
him, he stood on the pavement of Lower 
Grosvenor Place. 

Lower Grosvenor Place, as usual, was almost 
deserted. One or two chance pedestrians were 
moving along the pavement. Immersed in 
their own dreams and cares, they paid no at¬ 
tention whatever to the King. Higher up the 
sunlit street, a grizzled, battered looking old 
Scotchman, in tawdry Highland costume, was 
producing a dismal, droning wail on bagpipes, 
in front of one of the largest of the tall houses, 
in the hope, no doubt, that he would be given 
-C143> 


THE KING WHO 


“hush money,” and sent away, before the ar¬ 
rival of life’s inevitable policeman. 

After a quick glance up, and then down, the 
street, the King darted across the road, turned 
into the familiar cul-de-sac on the other side, 
and so passed into the secluded, shut-in mews 
at the back of the tall houses. 

No one was visible in the mews, as the King 
unlocked, and opened, the doors of Geoffrey 
Blunt’s garage. A minute or two sufficed for 
him to run out the car. Flinging on the thick, 
leather coat, and adjusting the goggles, which 
lay ready to his hand, where he had tossed 
them that morning, he relocked the garage 
doors. Then he sprang up into his seat at the 
steering wheel of the car, and started the 
engine. 

For one anxious moment, he feared that 
the engine was going to fail him; but, next mo¬ 
ment, it settled sweetly to its work, and the car 
shot forward, out of the secluded mews, up the 
quiet, side street beyond, and so into Grosve- 
nor Place. 

In Grosvenor Place, the chance pedestrians 
who had been moving along the sunlit pave¬ 
ment had passed on, out of sight, still immersed, 
no doubt, in their own dreams and cares. 
The grizzled, battered looking old Scotchman, 
•C144> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


in Highland costume, had just succeeded, ap¬ 
parently, in extorting his “hush money.” With 
his bagpipes tucked under his arm, he was 
swaggering along now, in the centre of the 
road, his ruddy, weatherbeaten, wrinkled face 
wreathed in smiles. 

The car caught up, and passed the trium¬ 
phant old blackmailer in a cloud of dust. 

A moment later, as he approached Hyde 
Park Corner, the King decided to vary the 
route which he usually followed. With this 
end in view, he swung the car sharply to the 
right, down Constitution Hill. At this hour 
of the day, it occurred to him, Park Lane and 
Oxford Street, his usual route, would be 
crowded with traffic. By running down Con¬ 
stitution Hill, and out into, and along, the 
Mall he would probably secure an open road, 
and so save several minutes. And every 
minute he could save now, might be of vital 
importance later. 

The car had a clear run down Constitution 
Hill. In the Mall, the Coronation flags still 
hung, flaunting and gay in the sunlight. The 
stands, on either side of the road, from which 
the guests of the Government had viewed the 
Coronation procession, the day before, were, 
too, still in position. The Office of Works, at 
-C145> 


THE KING WHO 


the moment, no doubt, had far more impor¬ 
tant, and urgent enterprises on hand, than 
the removal of flags, and the dismantling 
of stands. 

Sweeping along the Mall, and under the 
lavishly decorated Admiralty Arch, the car ran 
out into Trafalgar Square, without a check. 
But here, almost at once, the King had to pull 
up abruptly. The policeman, on point duty, 
at the top of Whitehall, had his arm held out 
against all eastbound traffic. Irritated by, and 
chafing under, the delay, the King was com¬ 
pelled to apply his brakes, and run the car into 
position, in the long queue of waiting vehicles, 
which had already gathered behind the police¬ 
man’s all powerful arm. 

A moment later, looking up from his brakes, 
as the car came to a standstill, he became aware 
that he had pulled up immediately beneath 
the equestrian statue of Charles the First. 

Here was an odd, an amusing—a supersti¬ 
tious man might even have said an ominous— 
coincidence. 

Had not the storm which was about to 
break, broken before, long ago, in this man’s 
reign? 

And had not this man been engulfed by the 
storm? 




WENT ON STRIKE 


The King looked up at the statue with a 
sudden flash of quickened, sober interest. 

Had not this man, alone, amongst all his 
predecessors been compelled to drain the poi¬ 
sonous cup of revolution to the very dregs? 

There had been no lightning conductor, no 
Duke of Northborough, no strong man, sure 
of himself, and of his purpose, ready, and 
eager, to take the full shock of the lightning 
flash, in this man’s day. 

But there had been. The Earl of Strafford. 
And Charles—Charles the Martyr, did not 
some people still call him?—had torn his light¬ 
ning conductor down with his own hands. He 
had failed Strafford. He had abandoned him 
to his enemies. With his own hand, he had 
signed Strafford’s, and so, in a sense, his own, 
death warrant. 

And he, himself—if this was an omen? 

He had not failed the Duke anyway. The 
Duke had assured him that he was not letting 
him down. If he believed, for a moment, that 
he was failing the Duke, he would turn round, 
even now, and go straight back to the palace. 

But the Duke needed no man’s support. 

There, at any rate, this man, fixed there, 
high above him, on horseback, in imperishable 
bronze, against the clear blue of the summer 
-C147> 


THE KING WHO 


sky, had been more fortunate than he was. 
This man had never known the bitterness of 
neutrality, of personal impotence, of personal 
insignificance. This man had had a part to 
play, and he had played it, not unhandsomely, 
at the last, they said. There was a jingle of 
some sort about it— 

“He nothing common did or mean 
Upon that memorable scene.” 

Nothing common or mean? Not at the 
last, perhaps. But, before the last, in his 
failure of Strafford? 

Still, limited, narrow, and bigoted, as he was, 
this man had lived, and died, for the faith that 
was in him. 

It had never occurred to him that he could 
go on strike. 

He had stood for, he had fought for, he had 
died for—the Divine Right of Kings! 

The Divine Right of Kings? 

How grotesquely absurd the phrase sounded 
now! 

But was it any more grotesquely absurd than 
the opposition, the counter-phrases, in praise 
of democracy, of the mob? 

The voice of the people is the voice of 
God. 


-C1483- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


The same grotesque bigotry, the same 
fanatical intolerance, spoke there. 

Happily people were growing chary of using 
such phrases. They had been too often used 
as a cloak to hide personal prejudices and 
passions, to be trusted much longer. 

Still, perhaps, the band was playing—some¬ 
where— 

At that moment, the King suddenly realized 
that the driver of the taxi-cab, immediately 
behind him, in the queue of waiting traffic, 
was performing a strident obligato on his mo¬ 
tor horn, which indicated, unmistakably, the 
violence of despair. Looking down with a 
start, he became aware, that unnoticed by him 
in his reverie, the block in the traffic had 
cleared, that the road lay open before him, 
and that he was holding up the long line of 
vehicles behind him, by his absence of mind, 
and consequent delay. 

The policeman on point duty smiled at him, 
reproachfully, as he succeeded, at last, in 
catching his eye, and then waved him forward. 

Flushing with momentary annoyance, at the 
absurdity of his position, the King hastily let 
out the car once again. 

The car leapt forward, swept round the 
square, and so passed into, and up, Charing 
-C149> 


THE KING WHO 

Cross Road, into Tottenham Court Road 
beyond— 

The car was heading due north now, due 
north for Paradise— 

The King’s thoughts turned naturally and 
inevitably to Judith, and to Uncle Bond. 

A difficult, and delicate problem, at once 
faced him. 

What was he to say to Judith, and to Uncle 
Bond? How was he to explain to them his 
unprecedentedly early, his almost immediate, 
return to their quiet haven? 

But that, he suddenly realized, with a shock, 
only touched the fringe of his problem! 

Sooner or later, even in their peaceful retreat, 
Judith and Uncle Bond would hear that the 
storm had broken. They would hear that 
Martial Law had been proclaimed. Knowing 
that, they would know, Judith with her knowl¬ 
edge of the Navy would know, that his place, 
as a sailor, was with his ship. And that was 
not all. Had he not given their address to the 
Duke? The Duke would be communicating 
with him— 

His real identity would be revealed to Judith, 
and to Uncle Bond, at last! 

His incognito would no longer serve him! 

Somehow, it had never occurred to him, at 
-C150> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


the time, what his giving of their address to 
the Duke involved. Not only would his real 
identity be revealed at last. His intimacy with 
Judith, and Uncle Bond would be no longer a 
secret. The Duke had Uncle Bond’s address. 
The Duke would soon know all that there was 
to be known about Uncle Bond—about 
Judith— 

Yes. He would have to tell Judith, and 
Uncle Bond, who he was, at once, before they 
learnt who he was, from other lips than his. 

Without knowing it, he had burnt his boats; 
unwittingly, he had forced his own hand. 

Would Judith and Uncle Bond believe him? 
Would they resent his deception? Would the 
shadow thrown by his Royal rank mar the 
delightful spontaneity of their intercourse, as 
he had always feared it would? It could not 
be helped now, if it did! But, it seemed to 
him, that it need not, that it should not. The 
unwavering friendship, of which Uncle Bond 
had assured him, only that morning, would 
surely bear the strain? He would take Uncle 
Bond at his word. 

“I have stepped out of my place in the pro¬ 
cession, and come to join you at your window, 
here in the quiet old inn of ‘Content.’ I want 
to forget the fight in the market-place. Help 
-C151> 


THE KING WHO 

me to forget it! Let us forget the past, avoid 
looking at the future—what the future will 
bring who can say?—and live, for the time 
being, in the present” 

Uncle Bond, and Judith—their astonishment 
at his real identity once over, and their 
astonishment would be amusing!—would not 
refuse such an appeal. 

After all, had it not always been their way, 
in Paradise, to live in the present? 

Judith and he, at any rate, had always lived 
in the present. 

Judith! What would she think? What 
would she say? She would understand his 
hesitation, his backwardness, his—apparent 
halfheartedness—now! She would be gen¬ 
erous. Judith? Judith would not fail him— 
By this time, the car was running through 
one of the more popular shopping districts in 
the inner suburbs. The shops on either side 
of the sunlit road, were still gaily decorated. 
The pavements were crowded. In the road, 
there was a good deal of traffic about, and the 
King had to drive, for the time being, more 
circumspectly. The stalls of an open air 
market provided an exasperating obstruction. 
Ultimately he had to pull up, and wait for an 
opening. This necessity served to recall him 
*C152> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


completely to his immediate surroundings. It 
was then, while he waited, chafing with im¬ 
patience at the delay, that he first became 
aware that the police were abroad in unusual 
numbers. 

Impassive, and motionless, the police stood, 
in little groups, here and there, in the crowd. 
The distance between one group, and the next 
group, of the burly, blue uniformed men seemed 
to have been carefully regulated. 

A sudden thrill of fear, which was not far 
removed from panic, ran through the King. 

Were the police concentrating already in 
accordance with their secret orders? 

It looked very much like it. 

He glanced hastily at his watch. 

It was nearly a quarter to twelve. 

Where were the barriers, of which the old 
Duke had spoken, likely to be? 

Here, or, perhaps, even further out, on the 
outskirts of the town, almost certainly. 

And he had still to make good his escape! 

Hitherto he had never doubted that he would 
make good his escape. Now, with the police 
already concentrating, and taking up their 
position in the streets, he could be no longer 
sure that he would get away, in time. 

Fortunately, at that moment, the road, at 
.-C153> 


THE KING WHO 

last, cleared. The King hastily let out the car 
once again. Then he opened out the engine, 
recklessly, to its fullest extent. This was 
no time for careful driving. The powerfully 
engined car did not fail him at his need. 
Sweeping clear of the traffic immediately in 
front, it was soon rushing along the level 
surface of the tramway track which led on, 
out into the outer suburbs. 

In the outer suburbs, the traffic was lighter, 
and the police were much less in evidence. 
But a convoy of motor lorries, which he rushed 
past, in which he caught a glimpse of soldiers 
in khaki service dress, added fuel sufficient to 
the already flaming fire of the King’s anxiety. 
At any moment, it seemed to him now, he might 
be called upon to halt, and compelled to 
return, if he was allowed to return, ignomini- 
ously, to the palace. 

But the barrier, drawn right across‘the road, 
with its little groups of attendant police, and 
military, which he could see, so vividly, in his 
imagination, did not materialize. The throb¬ 
bing car rushed on, through the outer suburbs, 
on past the last clusters of decorous, red-tiled 
villas, on through the area of market gardens, 
where the town first meets, and mingles with 
the country, on the north side of London, and 
-C154> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


so out, at last, on to the Great North Road, 
unchecked, and unchallenged. 

The broad high road stretched ahead, empty 
and deserted, in the brilliant noon sunshine, as 
far as eye could see. 

The car leapt at the road like a live thing— 

At last, the familiar, white-painted signpost, 
the Paradise-Hades post, flashed into view on 
the left of the road. 

It was then, and not until then, that the 
King slowed down the car. 

A great wave of relief, which told him how 
tense his anxiety had been, swept over him. 

He looked at his watch. 

It was some minutes past noon now. 

Already, behind him, in the town, the storm 
had broken. Already the blow had fallen. 

But this was Paradise. 

He had escaped. 

He was safe. 

He was free. 

All about him lay the sunlit, peaceful 
countryside. The hedges, on either side of the 
broad, winding road, were white with the 
blossoms of the wild rose. Beyond the hedges, 
stretched the open fields, a vivid, but restful, 
green in the bright noon light, broken, here and 
there, by clumps of tall trees, and rising, in a 
-C155> 


THE KING WHO 


gradual, gracious curve to thickly wooded 
heights on the skyline. 

A few cattle lay, motionless, on the grass, 
in the shade of the trees. 

A young foal, startled by the passing of the 
car, scrambled up on to his long legs, and 
fled, across the fields, followed, more sedately, 
by his heavy, clumsy, patient mother. 

One or two rabbits scuttled into the hedge, 
with a flash of their white bob-tails. 

High up, clear cut against the cloudless blue 
of the sky, a kestrel hovered. 

Yes. This was Paradise, unchanged, un¬ 
changing— 

Soon the familiar turning into the narrow, 
tree shadowed lane, on the left of the road 
came into view. Swinging into the lane, the 
King slowed down the car yet once again, 
partly from habit, and partly because of his 
enjoyment of the summer beauty all about 
him. 

He had plenty of time now. 

He laughed recklessly at the thought. 

He had all the time there was! 

Was he not—on strike—taking a holiday? 

At the house, at the bottom of the lane, the 
carriage gate, as usual, stood wide open. 
-C156> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


The King drove straight up the drive, where 
the rhododendron bushes, and the laburnum 
trees were ablaze with colour, and, round the 
side of the house, into the garage. 

No one was visible in the garden, about the 
house, or in the outbuildings beyond. 

In the silence which followed his shutting 
off of the engine of the car, he heard the whir 
of haycutting machines. 

They were haymaking, of course. 

Judith herself, who, far more than Uncle 
Bond, was really responsible for the manage¬ 
ment of the Home Farm, would be at work 
in the fields, holding her own with the best of 
them, in spite of the clamorous demands of the 
Imps for play. 

If Judith, and the Imps had been in the 
house, they would have run out to welcome him 
by now. 

Flinging off his leather coat, his cap, and his 
goggles, the King tossed them, one after the 
other, into the car. Then he sauntered round 
the side of the house, to the front door. 

All the doors, and windows in the house 
stood wide open. 

No one appeared to receive him. 

For a moment or two the King lingered, 

<157> 


THE KING WHO 

irresolutely, on the verandah beside the front 
door. 

What should he do? In all probability, the 
whole household were at work in the hay- 
fields. Should he go and find them there? 
No. Judith would be astonished to see him. 
She might betray her astonishment. In the 
circumstances it would be as well that his meet¬ 
ing with Judith should have as few eye-wit¬ 
nesses as possible. 

But Uncle Bond would be in. Had he not 
declared that “Cynthia” would be good for 
five or six thousand words that day? The 
little man would be upstairs, hard at work, in 
his big, many-windowed writing room. Dare 
he break in upon Uncle Bond’s jealously 
guarded literary seclusion? It was a thing 
which he had never ventured to do. It was a 
thing which Judith herself rarely cared to do. 
But, after all, this was an exceptional day, if 
ever there was an exceptional day! Now that 
he came to think about it, it would be a good 
thing if he could see Uncle Bond, in his 
capacity of “heavy father,” before he saw 
Judith. Strictly speaking was it not to Uncle 
Bond, as his host, that his announcement of 
his real identity, and his explanations, and his 
apologies were first due? 

-C158> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


With a sudden flash of determination, in 
which a semi-humorous, boyish desire to face 
the music, and get it over, played a large part, 
the King entered the house. 


-C159> 


CHAPTER XI 


ITHIN the sunny, airy house 
there was absolute silence, and 
perfect stillness. The King 
crossed the broad, square hall, 
a pleasant retreat, with its 
gaily coloured chintz covered chairs, and otto¬ 
man, its piano, its bookcases, and its big blue 
bowls, full of roses, and passed straight up 
the glistening white staircase, which led to 
Uncle Bond’s quarters on the upper floor. At 
the head of the staircase, he turned to his left, 
down a short corridor, in which stood the door 
of Uncle Bond’s writing room. On reaching 
the door, he paused, for a moment or two, very 
much as a swimmer pauses, on the high diving 
board, before he plunges into the deep end of 
the swimming bath. Then, smiling a little at 
his own nervous tremors, he knocked at the 
door, and, opening it without waiting for any 
reply, entered the room. 

The writing room in which Uncle Bond spent 
his working hours extended along the whole 
breadth of the house. One side of the room, 
the side directly opposite to the door, was 
-£ 1603 - 













WENT ON STRIKE 


almost entirely made up of windows, which 
commanded an uninterrupted view of the 
garden, and beyond the garden, of a superb 
sweep of the surrounding, thickly wooded, 
park-like country. The three other sides of the 
room were covered with a plain, grey paper, 
and were bare of all ornament. No pictures, 
no bookcases, and no pieces of bric-a-brac were 
displayed in the room. This complete ab¬ 
sence of decoration gave a conspicuous, and 
most unusual, suggestion of emptiness to the 
whole interior. None the less, with many of 
the windows wide open, and with the brilliant, 
summer sunshine streaming in through them, 
the room had a charm, as well as a character 
of its own. Above all else, it was a man’s 
room. There was space in which to move 
about. There was light. And there was air. 

Uncle Bond was seated, at the moment the 
King entered, at a large writing table, which 
stood in the centre of the room, with his back 
to the door, busy writing. 

The King closed the door quietly behind him, 
and then halted, just inside the room, and 
waited, as he had seen Judith do in similar 
circumstances. 

Uncle Bond did not look round but went on 
writing. 


-C 161 > 


THE KING WHO 

Clearly a sentence, or a paragraph, had to 
be finished. 

Uncle Bond’s writing table was bare and 
empty like the room in which it stood. The 
blotting pad on which the little man was 
writing, a neat pile of completed manuscript 
on his left, and a packet, from which he drew 
a fresh supply of paper as he required it, which 
lay on his right, were the only objects visible 
on the table. No paraphernalia of pen and 
ink was in evidence. Uncle Bond worked in 
pencil. No inkstand, or pen, invented by the 
wit of man, could satisfy him. 

A small table, in the far corner of the room, 
on the right, on which stood a typewriter, an 
instrument of torture which the little man 
loathed, and rarely used, a large sofa, placed 
under, and parallel with, the windows, and 
another table, on the left, which appeared to 
be laid for a meal, with two or three un¬ 
compromisingly straight backed chairs, com¬ 
pleted the furnishing of the room. 

This was a workshop: a workshop from 
which all the machinery and tools had been 
removed. 

Uncle Bond wrote swiftly. He had a trick 
of stabbing at the paper in front of him, with 
his pencil, periodically, which puzzled the 
-C 162 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


King. Ultimately it dawned upon him that 
this was probably merely Uncle Bond’s method 
of dotting his i’s, crossing his t’s, and putting 
in his stops. This supposition appeared to be 
confirmed, presently, when, with a more 
energetic stab than usual which marked, no 
doubt, a final full stop, the little man finished 
writing. 

Uncle Bond wore, when at work, a pair of 
large, tortoiseshell framed spectacles, which 
gave a grotesque air of gravity to his round, 
double chinned, clean-shaven face. He turned 
now in his chair, and looked at the King, for 
a moment, over the rims of these spectacles. 
Then he sprang up to his feet, snatched off 
his spectacles, and darted across the room to 
the table on the left, which appeared to be 
laid for a meal. 

“A whole chicken—cold! A salad. A sweet, 
indescribable, but glutinous, pink, and iced. 
We shall manage,” the little man crowed, as he 
uncovered a number of dishes on the table, and 
peered at their contents. “My dear boy, I am 
delighted to see you. For the last half hour, 
I have been thinking about lunch, but I dis¬ 
liked the idea of feeding alone. I am, as you 
have probably already discovered, by myself 
in the house. Judith and the Imps are pic- 


THE KING WHO 


nicking in the hay fields. The servants are all 
in the fields. Judith hopes to cut, and cart, the 
Valley fields to-day. ‘Cynthia’ and I have 
had the house to ourselves all morning. We 
have achieved wonders. I told you ‘Cynthia’ 
would function today, didn’t I? She is at 
the top of her form. We are already level 
with the time-table, and she is still in play. 
But we shall need some more knives and 
forks, a plate or two, and a bottle—a bottle 
decidedly! A light, sparkling, golden wine. 
A long necked bottle with the right label. I 
will go downstairs, and forage. You haven’t 
had lunch, I suppose?” 

The King smiled, in spite of himself. 

This was not the reception that he had 
anticipated. 

“No. I have not had lunch, Uncle Bond,” 
he admitted. 

“Good!” the little man chuckled. “You 
must be hungry. I am. And you look tired. 
You can pull the table out, and find a couple 
of chairs, while I am away, if you like. 
Glasses—and a corkscrew!” 

He moved, as he spoke, towards the door. 

But, by the door, he paused. 

“By the way, Alfred, there is a book on the 
-C164> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


window sill, beside the sofa, which may interest 
you/’ he remarked. 

Then he darted out of the room— 

Mechanically, the King crossed the room to 
the luncheon table. 

The table was most attractively arranged. 
No doubt Judith herself had seen to Uncle 
Bond’s meal, before she had left the house, with 
the Imps, for the hayfields. A bowl of Uncle 
Bond’s favourite roses, in the centre of the 
table, seemed to speak of Judith’s thoughtful¬ 
ness, and taste. No servant would have laid 
the table quite like this. 

Beyond pulling the table out into the room, 
nearer to the windows, and placing a couple 
of chairs in position beside it, there was really 
nothing that he could do in preparation for 
the meal, pending Uncle Bond’s return with 
the additional knives and forks, and plates 
which would be necessary. 

A minute or two sufficed for this readjust¬ 
ment of the furniture. 

Then the King turned to the windows, 
attracted by the sunlight, and the fresh air. 

How easily, and naturally things—happened 
•—here in Paradise! 

Uncle Bond had accepted his unpre- 

-C16 53- 


THE KING WHO 


cedentedly early, his almost immediate return, 
without question, or comment. 

Uncle Bond, and Judith, always accepted 
him like that, of course. 

But, today, it seemed strange! 

The scene which he had visualized between 
Uncle Bond and himself had not opened like 
this at all. He had meant to astonish Uncle 
Bond, at the outset, by his disclosure of his 
real identity. He had looked forward to 
astonishing Uncle Bond, he realized now, in 
spite of his nervous tremors, with real enjoy¬ 
ment. It was he, and not Uncle Bond, who 
was to have dominated this scene. He was 
like an actor whose big scene had failed. Some¬ 
how he had missed his cue. 

One thing was certain. His announcement, 
his disclosure, of his real identity must be no 
longer delayed. Somehow he could not bear 
to think of accepting Uncle Bond’s joyous 
hospitality, of eating his salt, without first con¬ 
fessing his past deception, and receiving the 
little man’s forgiveness and absolution. It was 
odd that his conscience should have become 
suddenly so sensitive in the matter. His feel¬ 
ing was quite irrational, of course— 

But how was he to make his announcement? 
It was not the sort of thing that could be 
< 166 ^ 


WENT ON STRIKE 


blurted out anyhow. He would have to lead 
up to it somehow. 

“I am, or rather I was, until twelve noon, 
today—the King! Now I am—on strike— 
taking a holiday!” 

How wildly absurd it sounded! 

Such an announcement, however skilfully 
he led up to it, would carry no conviction with 
it. Uncle Bond would not, could not be ex¬ 
pected to believe him. 

Somehow, here in Paradise, he hardly be¬ 
lieved in it himself! 

The fact was his dual life, the two distinct 
parts which he had played for so long, had 
become too much for him. Hitherto, he had 
been able to keep the two parts, more or less 
distinct. Now he was trying to play both 
parts at once. It was a mental, it was almost 
a physical, impossibility. 

“Alfred,” “my boy,” the sailor who had just 
been given promotion, the sailor who served the 
King, never had been, and never could be— 
the King. 

He was a real man, alive, breathing, and 
thinking, at the moment, here, in the sunlight, 
by the windows. 

The King whom the old Duke of North- 
borough addressed as “Sir,” the King who 
-C167> 


THE KING WHO 


lived in the palace, guarded night and day by 
the soldiery and the police, the King who had, 
at last, asserted himself recklessly, gone on 
strike, taken a holiday—he was a mere delu¬ 
sion, a dream. 

But the real part, the better part, had now 
to be dropped. 

Fate, chance, circumstances over which he 
had had no control, had decided that. 

Yes. “Alfred,” “my boy,” was gasping for 
life, taking a last look at the green beauty of 
the sunlit, summer world, now, here at the 
windows— 

The King shook himself, impatiently, and 
turned from the windows. 

His position was trying enough, as it was, 
without his indulging in imaginary morbidity! 

As he turned, his eyes were caught by an 
open book, which lay on the window sill, be¬ 
side the sofa, on his right. 

Had not Uncle Bond said something about a 
book, a book on the window sill, beside the 
sofa, a book that might interest him? An un¬ 
common book that! He was no reading man, 
as Uncle Bond knew well. But it might be a 
copy of the little man’s latest shocker— 

Welcoming the distraction, the King 
advanced to the sofa, and picked up the book. 

-C 168 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


In the centre of the right-hand page of the 
open volume a couple of sentences had been 
heavily scored in pencil. 

The King read these words— 

“Is it not strange so few Kings abdicate; and 
none yet heard of has been known to commit 
suicide? Fritz the First, of Prussia, alone tried 
it; and they cut the rope.” 

It was a moment or two before the King’s 
brain registered the sense of the words. 

He read the sentences a second time. 

Then he turned, mechanically, to the title 
page of the book— 

“The French Revolution, a History. 

“by Thomas Carlyle.” 

Suddenly, with the open book still in his 
hand, the King sank down on to the sofa. 

This could not be chance. This was not a 
coincidence. This was no accident. 

Uncle Bond had called his attention to the 
book—a book which might interest him! It 
was Uncle Bond’s pencil which had scored 
these sentences, so apposite to his own position, 
so heavily. Uncle Bond must have left the 
book, open at this page, on the window sill, 
deliberately. 


< 169 * 


THE KING WHO 

The inference was unmistakable. 

Uncle Bond knew who he was! 

And that was not all. 

Uncle Bond must know something, at least, 
about the existing crisis! 

A storm of clamorous questions jostled each 
other in the King’s brain. 

How did Uncle Bond know? How long 
had he known? And Judith—did Judith know, 
too? Why had Uncle Bond chosen this 
particular moment, and this particular way, to 
reveal his knowledge? Had the little man’s 
uncanny, unerring instinct told him that he 
himself was about to reveal his real identity, 
at last? 

No. That was impossible. 

Uncle Bond had marked the sentences, and 
placed the book on the window sill, before he 
himself had entered the room. 

And he had had twinges of compunction, 
nervous tremors, about the deception which he 
had practised. 

He laughed contemptuously at himself. 

Clearly, it was he himself, and not Uncle 
Bond, not Judith, who had been deceived— 

At that moment, Uncle Bond’s returning 
footsteps, in the corridor, outside the room, 
became audible. 


-C170> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


Uncle Bond entered the room carrying a 
tray which was loaded with silver, and cutlery, 
glasses and plates, and the long-necked bottle 
which he had promised. He shot a shrewd 
glance at the King, as he crossed the room to 
the luncheon table; but he set down his tray, 
on the table, without speaking. 

For a moment, the King hesitated. Then 
he sprang up, impulsively, to his feet, and 
advanced to the table. Holding out the open 
book, which he had retained in his left hand, 
towards Uncle Bond, he tapped it with his 
right forefinger. 

“You know who I am, Uncle Bond?” he 
challenged. 

Uncle Bond chuckled delightedly. 

“I do,” he acknowledged. “Get the cork 
out of that bottle, my boy. I’ve got to carve 
the chicken.” 


<in> 


CHAPTER XII 



CLIMAX is always a difficult 
business to handle,” Uncle 
Bond continued, sitting down at 
the table and beginning his 
attack on the cold chicken. 
“It is easy enough to work up to. ‘Cynthia’ 
never has any trouble in getting in the neces¬ 
sary punch at the end of her instalments. 
But to carry on, after the punch, to get the 
next instalment going—that is a very different 
affair. In nine cases out of ten, that gives even 
‘Cynthia’ herself a lot of trouble. My dear 
boy, put down that admirable volume—it is 
in your left hand!—and, I repeat myself, get 
the cork out of that bottle! I know you are 
quite unconscious of the fact, but your 
attitude, at the moment, is most distressingly 
wooden.” 

The King came to himself with a start. 

“I beg your pardon, Uncle Bond,” he stam¬ 
mered, blushing like a schoolboy. 

Laying “The French Revolution, A History, 
by Thomas Carlyle,” down on the table, he 
-072;}- 











WENT ON STRIKE 


picked up the longnecked bottle, and got to 
work, hurriedly, with the corkscrew. 

He was, suddenly, very glad to have some¬ 
thing to do. 

“Fortunately for us, my boy, you and I can 
control the development of this scheme,” Uncle 
Bond went on, busy with the carving knife and 
fork. “It occurs to me, by the way, that I 
am destined to play the part of general utility 
man in our—comedy. I can see no immediate 
opening for the knockabout comedian. A 
touch of the heavy father may be possible 
later on. But, meanwhile, explanations are 
necessary. Obviously that involves the general 
utility man in the part of ‘Chorus.’ Strictly 
speaking, I suppose I ought to address you in 
blank verse. I will spare you that. One of 
the old dramatic conventions about the ‘Chorus’ 
it seems to me, however, is likely to suit you. 
‘Chorus’ enters solus. You can leave the stage 
to me—” 

At that moment, the cork in the longnecked 
bottle came away, unexpectedly, as is the habit 
of corks. 

The King filled the glasses on the table with 
the light, sparkling, golden wine. 

“Good!” Uncle Bond crowed. “Now you 
can sit down, and—sink out into the back- 
< 173 > 


THE KING WHO 


cloth. On the other hand, if you prefer to 
remain on the stage, a glass of wine is useful 
stage business.” 

The King sat down at the table opposite to 
Uncle Bond. 

At the moment, bewildered and almost 
dazed as he was, he felt very much like a 
theatrical super, assisting at a stage meal. 

“I am giving you a wing, Alfred. No 
breast!” Uncle Bond continued, proceeding to 
portion out the dismembered chicken. “My 
action is symbolical. This is between our¬ 
selves, and outside our stage play! There are 
not many places where they give you the wing 
of the chicken, are there? You will continue 
to be given the wing of the chicken here. 
You will continue to be received here, as you 
are received nowhere else. Our friend Alfred 
will find no change, in his reception here— 
whatever happens. You are reassured, I hope? 
Your worst fears are stilled? Good! Help 
yourself to salad. And try the wine. I can 
recommend it!” 

The King took the plate of chicken which 
the little man held out to him, and helped 
himself to salad, mechanically. This common¬ 
place routine of the meal served to steady 
him. In some measure reassured by Uncle 
-C174> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


Bond’s whimsical symbolism, he was relieved 
to find that he could eat. 

Uncle Bond helped himself from the salad 
bowl in turn, tried the wine, and then settled 
down, happily, to the meal, which he had 
been so unwilling to essay alone. But the 
play of his knife and fork, energetic as it was, 
did not interfere, for long, with his talk. 

“And now to resume our comedy!” he 
chuckled, in a minute or two. “Between our¬ 
selves, my boy, I am enjoying the present 
situation enormously. But ‘Chorus’ expla¬ 
nations are necessary, and cannot wait. 
Therefore— ‘Enter Chorus! ’ 

“I have known who you were almost, if not 
quite, from the first, Alfred. Judith knew you 
first, of course. Judith recognized you at 
sight. My dear boy, how could you imagine 
that it could be otherwise? Have you ever 
considered the possibilities of the case? 

“Judith was born in the Navy. For years 
she lived in the Navy. She married into the 
Navy. Of course, she knew ‘Our Sailor 
Prince.’ As likely as not his photograph has 
adorned her mantelpiece ever since the far¬ 
away days when she was a romantic school¬ 
girl. ‘Cynthia’s’ romantic schoolgirls, at any 
rate, are always like that! 

-C175> 


THE KING WHO 


“And I myself? Am I not a member of 
many clubs? ‘Alfred York’ was hardly likely 
to be an impenetrable incognito with me, was 
it? Wherever you go, too, although you are 
so strangely unconscious of the fact, you carry 
about with you a historic face! 

“But, even if Judith and I had had no special 
knowledge, even if we had been lacking in 
penetration, it seems to me that we must, 
infallibly, have recognized you, sooner or later. 
Have you not been, in recent months at least, 
the most bephotographed young man in 
Europe? I do not suggest that the picture 
papers are Judith’s, or my, favourite reading. 
But we have a cook. Do you think that we 
could keep a cook, who can cook, here, in the 
country, if we did not supply her with her 
daily copy of the ‘Looking-Glass’? Sooner or 
later, it seems to me, Judith or I must have 
taken a surreptitious peep into the kitchen 
copy of the ‘Looking-Glass,’ and so seen, and 
recognized, our friend Alfred in the pictured 
news of the day.” 

At this point, the turmoil within the King, 
surprise, bewilderment, and self-contempt, the 
latter predominating, became altogether too 
much for him. He quite forgot the necessary 
silence of the stage super 
< 176 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


“I feel a most unmitigated fool, Uncle Bond,” 
he exclaimed. 

“Exit, Chorus!” Uncle Bond chuckled 
delightedly. “Slow music— Enter the Hero 
of the Piece! You were about to say?” 

“I don’t know what I was going to say,” 
the King muttered uncomfortably, with his 
eyes on his plate. “I know what I was going 
to say before you—took the wind out of my 
sails. I was all ready with a speech. I had 
two speeches ready.” 

“It is a pity that they should be wasted,” 
Uncle Bond remarked. “Get them off your 
chest, my boy. They will probably serve 
more than one useful purpose. Apart from 
anything else, they will give me a chance to get 
on with my lunch. You have got rather ahead 
of me, I observe. Take which ever comes 
first. The slow music dies away—the Hero 
of the Piece speaks—” 

The King fingered his wineglass nervously. 
He wanted to put himself right with Uncle 
Bond. He wanted to tell him that he had 
meant to reveal his real identity himself, that 
he had meant to apologize for the deception 
he had practised. He wanted to rehabilitate 
himself in his own eyes. 

“I was going to tell you—who I am, myself, 

-£ 1773 - 


THE KING WHO 


Uncle Bond,” he began lamely. “I was going 
to reveal my real identity at last. I was going 
to apologize to you for my deception, and ask 
for your—absolution. 

“ ‘I am, or rather was, until twelve noon 
today—the King! Now I am—on strike— 
taking a holiday—’ That was to have been 
my first speech!” 

Uncle Bond started, and shot a surprised 
glance at the King. 

Engrossed in his own thoughts, and still 
fingering his wineglass nervously, the King 
did not notice the little man’s movement. 

“I hardly expected you to believe me. I 
did not see how you could possibly believe 
me,” he went on. “I counted on astonishing 
you—astonishing you!—and Judith. I looked 
forward to astonishing you.” He laughed 
contemptuously at himself. “I thought that 
your astonishment would be amusing. This 
was to have been my scene, not yours. That 
is partly why—I feel such a fool!” 

He was silent for a moment or two. 

Uncle Bond made no comment, but plied his 
knife and fork vigorously. 

“When you believed me, when you had 
recovered from your astonishment, and had 


WENT ON STRIKE 


forgiven my deception—I knew you—and 
Judith—would forgive me/’ the King con¬ 
tinued, “I was going to make my second speech. 
You remember our talk, this morning, about 
the procession? That seems years ago, now, 
somehow, doesn’t it? In my second speech, I 
was going to take you at your word about—the 
procession. 

“ T have stepped out of my place in the pro¬ 
cession, and come to join you at your window, 
here, in the quiet old inn of “Content.” I 
want to forget the fight in the market-place. 
Help me to forget it! Let us forget the past, 
avoid looking at the future—what the future 
will bring, who can say?—and live for the time 
being in the present!’ That is what I was 
going to say. It seemed to me that you—and 
Judith—would not be able to resist an appeal 
like that. Here, in Paradise, we have always 
lived in the present, haven’t we?” 

Uncle Bond put down his knife and fork. 

“Very pretty!” he chuckled. “I can under¬ 
stand your disappointment, my boy. There 
was good stuff in your scene. I am glad we 
have contrived to work in—both your speeches. 
They are—illuminating. More chicken? A 
slice of the breast—now? No. Then advance 


THE KING WHO 


the sweet. And refill the glasses. You ap¬ 
prove the wine? Good! Once again I resume 
my part of ‘Chorus.’ 

“As ‘Chorus’ allow me to recall your attem 
tion to Thomas Carlyle, my boy,” he went on, 
proceeding to serve the sweet. “I am rather 
proud of that little bit of stage business. 
‘Cynthia’ herself, I flatter myself, could hardly 
have hit anything neater. How does the 
quotation run? 

“ ‘Is it not strange so few Kings abdicate; 
and none yet heard of has been known to com¬ 
mit suicide? Fritz the First, of Prussia, alone 
tried it; and they cut the rope.’ 

“It got you—that quotation, my boy,— 
didn’t it? It was meant to get you. I knew 
your announcement, your confession, would 
give you trouble. Out of pure good nature—- 
or was it malice?—I anticipated it.” 

“But how did you know I was going to make 
my confession?” the King exclaimed, suddenly 
remembering his previous bewilderment on the 
subject. 

“Thank you, my boy,” Uncle Bond chuckled. 
“I manoeuvred, clumsily I fear, for that very 
question. There is, perhaps, something in¬ 
herently clumsy in this device of the ‘Chorus.’ 
Hence, no doubt, its banishment from the 
<IS0^ 


WENT ON STRIKE 


modern stage. I did not know, I could not 
know, for certain, that you would make your 
confession. But your confession seemed to 
me to be inevitable. Or, if not inevitable, 
necessary. Perhaps I wished to make sure of, 
as well as help you to, your confession. I 
must warn you that I have another little 
surprise saved up for you, my boy. But I 
will hurry to the end of my explanations. I 
do so the more readily as I am eager to demand 
an explanation from you, in turn. 

“Paradise, although personally I am careful 
to suppress the fact as much as possible, is on 
the telephone. Judith finds it necessary to 
talk to the Stores! This morning, while 
‘Cynthia’ and I were hard at it, the telephone 
bell rang violently. The instrument, by the 
way, is in the pantry. I ignored the summons. 
I hoped the girl at the Exchange would soon 
grow weary. She persisted. In the end, 
‘Cynthia’ retired hurt, and I descended the 
staircase. 

“A wonderful instrument! Not the tele¬ 
phone. The human voice. There are voices 
which rivet the attention at once—even on 
the telephone. This was one of them— 

“ ‘Northborough is speaking. Is that you 
Bond? Alfred York is motoring down to see 

cmy 


THE KING WHO 


you. He is on his way now. You can put 
him up for twenty-four, or forty-eight, hours, 
I suppose? If you get the opportunity, you 
can tell him, when he arrives, that everything 
is proceeding in accordance with plan . 7 ” 

“You know the Duke of Northborough?” 
the King gasped. 

“Thanks to you, my boy, yes,” Uncle Bond 
chuckled. “Note in passing, that I—with the 
assistance of Thomas Carlyle—have created 
an opportunity to tell you that—‘everything is 
proceeding in accordance with plan!’ But we 
must really finish this sweet. No more for 
you? Another glass of wine, then? You will 
find that the bottle will run to it, although 
those long necks are deceptive.” 

Mechanically, the King filled the wineglasses 
once again. 

For a minute or two, there was silence while 
Uncle Bond made short work of the remnant 
of the sweet which the King had refused to 
share. 

This accomplished the little man leant back 
in his chair. 

“When Alfred York, the young and reck¬ 
less sailor, whose friendship Judith and I have 
learnt to value so highly in recent months, 
first showed an unmistakable desire to establish 
-C 182 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 

an intimacy with us, I saw no reason why I 
should—discourage his visits,” Uncle Bond 
resumed with a mischievous chuckle. “Who, 
and what, our friend Alfred might be elsewhere, 
how he might fill in his—spare time—else¬ 
where, it seemed to me—need be—no concern 
of ours. These were matters to which he 
never referred. Judith and I might have our 
own ideas on the subject, we might even have 
knowledge which he never suspected; but until 
he spoke, it seemed to me, that there was— 
no necessity—for us to speak. Our friend 
Alfred obviously valued the hospitality which 
we were so glad to offer him. That was enough 
for us. 

“But things happen. The curse, and the 
charm, of human life in two words—things 
happen! 

“When our friend Alfred suddenly became 
earmarked for—promotion—high promotion— 
I had to admit to myself that the situation 
was, at once, materially changed. So long as 
our friend Alfred was a person of only—minor 
importance—his visits to us might, it seemed to 
me, fairly be considered—merely his own affair, 
and ours. But when he became a person of 
—the first importance—of the first importance 
in greater issues than he appears, as yet, to 
-£ 1833 - 


THE KING WHO 


have realized, his frequent visits here involved 
me—in a grave responsibility, to which I could 
not shut my eyes. A reckless young man, our 
friend Alfred. He did incredible things. He 
took amazing risks. I had to reconsider the 
whole position. I will not trouble you with 
an analysis of my conflicting motives. 
Ultimately I took action. I wrote a letter. 

“It was plain James Bond who wrote that 
letter—just as it is plain James Bond who is 
speaking at this moment. Somehow, he seems 
to have lost sight of his part of ‘Chorus’! 
‘Cynthia’ did not contribute a single phrase 
to the letter. It must have been a good letter, 
I think. It had an immediate result. Within 
less than twenty-four hours it brought a very 
busy, and distinguished man from town down 
here into our quiet backwater to see us.” 

“The Duke?” the King exclaimed. 

“The Duke,” Uncle Bond acknowledged. 
“Let there be no mistake about my position, at 
the outset, my boy. I am a partisan of the 
Duke! 

“The Duke and I had some talk, but he spent 
most of his time with Judith, and the Imps. 
Judith—liked him. The Imps—took to him. 
We gave him tea. When he left he was good 
enough to say that I had given him a pleasure 
-C1843- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


extremely rare in the experience of an old 
man. I had introduced him to four new 
friends! He said other agreeable things. 
But the most important thing he said, perhaps, 
was that, with certain precautionary measures 
taken, which he himself would arrange, he saw 
no reason why—the gates of Paradise should 
be shut on a younger, and more fortunate 
visitor than himself. 

“My dear boy, I have always liked your 
reckless audacity. I sympathize heartily with 
you in your distaste for police surveillance. 
But that you should consistently give the police 
the slip, and career about here, alone in your 
car, when the men responsible for your safety 
believed that you were fast asleep, in bed, in 
town—in the present state of the country, the 
risks, for you, for us, were altogether too 
great. Think what our position would have 
been if anything had happened to you! But 
for some time past, from the day of the Duke’s 
visit to us, those risks have been avoided. 
Scotland Yard have been on their mettle. 
They have never lost sight of you. When I 
went downstairs, just before lunch, I found 
half a dozen plain clothes men making them¬ 
selves comfortable in the kitchen. They have 
grown quite at home with us. And to-day, 


THE KING WHO 


they tell me, special precautions are being 
taken. A battalion of the Guards, I under¬ 
stand, is to put a picket line round the house. 
My dear boy, restrain your impatience! You 
will not see them. The police have strict 
orders never to intrude their presence upon 
you. The military, I have no doubt, will have 
similar orders. From the first, the Duke has 
been as anxious—as any of us—that you 
should continue to enjoy the full benefits of 
your incognito, here, in Paradise. 

“And that brings me, having finished my own 
explanations, to the explanation which I am so 
eager to demand from you, in turn, my boy. 
How did the Duke contrive that you should 
come here, in the present crisis—they told me 
downstairs that Martial Law has been pro¬ 
claimed!—without betraying the fact that he 
had been here himself?” 

All the King’s senses had been numbed by 
the rapid succession of surprises with which 
Uncle Bond had attacked him. His capacity 
for wonder had long since been exhausted. 
It seemed to him now that nothing would ever 
surprise him again. A feeling of utter help¬ 
lessness oppressed him. It seemed to him that 
he was in the grip, that he had been made the 
-C 186 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


plaything, of an implacable, an irresistible 
power. But Uncle Bond’s question served to 
arouse a momentary flash of his old self- 
assertion within him. He had been deceived, 
he had been managed, he had been fooled to 
the top of his bent—but, in this matter, at any 
rate, he had asserted himself; in this matter, 
at any rate, he had had his own way. 

“The Duke did not contrive that I should 
come here,” he exclaimed. “I chose to come 
here. It was—my way of going on strike.” 

“You startled me by saying something like 
that before, my boy,” Uncle Bond remarked. 
“What do you mean, precisely, by—your way 
of going on strike?” 

“The whole trouble is a strike. The Labour 
people have called a universal, lightning strike 
from twelve noon, today,” the King explained 
impatiently. “The Duke says a little company 
of revolutionary extremists are behind it all. 
They want to run up the Red Flag. I told the 
Duke that if there was one man in the whole 
country who was justified in striking, in leav¬ 
ing his work, it seemed to me, I was that man. 
And I said I would come here. Coming here 
was my way of going on strike.” 

Uncle Bond leant forward in his chair. 

-C187> 


THE KING WHO 


“Are you quite sure that the Duke did not 
contrive that you should come here, my boy?” 
he persisted. 

A doubt was at once born in the King’s 
mind. The Duke had offered no opposition 
whatever to his reckless excursion. The Duke 
had accepted his rebellion. The Duke had en¬ 
couraged him to leave the palace— 

“The Duke wanted me to go to Windsor, or 
to Sandringham, in the first place, I think. 
But—I daresay he was quite willing that I 
should come here,” he muttered. 

“In the circumstances, you could hardly have 
a quieter, a more unexpected, and so, a safer, 
retreat,” Uncle Bond remarked. 

Then he chuckled delightedly. 

“My Carlyle quotation was even more ap¬ 
posite than I realized, my boy,” he crowed. 
“It seems to me that you have done your best 
—to commit suicide! But your experience 
will be similar to that of Fritz the First, of 
Prussia. They will cut the rope. The Duke 
must be busy cutting the rope now— 

“This strike will collapse, of course—quickly. 
It must have been an unexpected move; a last 
desperate throw by the foreign agitators who 
have failed to produce more serious trouble. 
Everybody, who is anybody, has known, for 
-C 188 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


months, that there was trouble brewing. All 
sorts of wild rumours from the Continent have 
been current in the Clubs. But an attempt at 
armed rebellion was the common idea. It has 
been talked about so much that most people, 
I daresay, have ceased to take it too seriously. 
They will be surprised. But the Duke would 
not be surprised. Everything is proceeding in 
accordance with plan! Things have a way of 
proceeding in accordance with plan, with the 
Duke— 

“What a story ‘Cynthia’ could make out of 
it all! ‘The King Who Went on Strike!’ A 
good title for the bookstalls! But the best 
stories can never be written—” 

Leaning back in his chair as he spoke, the 
little man turned away from the luncheon table, 
and looked out through the open windows, on 
his left, at the sunlit wooded landscape, be¬ 
yond the garden. 

“It is strange, when you come to think of 
it, that you and I should be sitting here, in 
peace and quietness, my boy, when there is 
uproar and tumult, perhaps, when great events 
are shaping themselves, perhaps, over there, 
beyond our wooded skyline,” he murmured. 
“Does it not seem strange—to you?” 

Mechanically the King swung round in his 
-C189> 


THE KING WHO 

chair, and looked out, through the windows, in 
turn— 

But the wooded skyline was not destined to 
hold his attention for long. 

Almost at once, his eyes were drawn away, 
to the sunlit garden below, by a charming little 
interlude which was enacted there. 

Bareheaded, and dressed in white, suddenly, 
round the side of the house, came Judith, 
slender and tall, her beautiful vivid face rosy 
with the touch of the harvest sun. On her 
shoulder, skilfully supported in her upstretched 
arms, sat Bill, with his eyes closed, nodding 
his cherub’s head, heavy with sleep. Beside 
her trotted Button, animated, vivacious. 

Judith was smiling happily, as she crooned 
in a low, sweet voice some lullaby. 

Button sang, too, more loudly. 

In Button’s clear, young voice, the words 
of the song became audible in the room— 

“And does it not seem hard to you, 

“When all the sky is clear and blue, 

“And I should like so much to play, 

“To have to go bed by day?” 

A moment later, tightening her hold on Bill, 
Judith stepped up on to the verandah and, 
-C190> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


followed by Button, disappeared from view, 
into the house. 

The King sprang up, and advanced to the 
windows. 

In a little while Judith reappeared, alone, in 
the garden. 

Somehow the King had known that she 
would reappear. 

The Imps had had to go to bed by day! 

Sauntering across the lawn, Judith headed 
for the belt of trees at the far end of the 
garden. 

The King knew where she was going. 

Beyond the trees, in the furthest corner of 
the garden, stood a small summer house, which 
commanded a magnificent view of the surround¬ 
ing landscape. For the sake of this view, the 
summer house was a favourite retreat of 
Judith’s. 

Judith disappeared, with a final flicker of 
her white dress, behind the trees, at the far 
end of the garden. 

The King turned abruptly from the windows. 

He was going to Judith— 

And then—he remembered Uncle Bond. 

Uncle Bond had risen to his feet, and had 
thrown a white cloth over the luncheon table. 
He crossed the room now to his writing table, 
-C1913- 


THE KING WHO 

sat down deliberately, and picked up his 
pencil. 

“You are going to join Judith, in the garden, 
my boy?” he remarked. “That is right. 
Judith will be surprised—and glad—to see you. 
I am about to revert to ‘Cynthia.’ I have only 
one thing more to say to you—now. Thomas 
Carlyle! Do not forget in Judith’s, or in your 
own excitement, that they will—‘cut the rope! ’ 
That is certain. You cannot afford to forget 
that fact, in your dealings with any of us, my 
boy—least of all can you afford to forget it, 
in your dealings with Judith.” 

The little man began to write. 

The King opened his lips to speak; thought 
better of it, and closed them again; and then 
—hurried out of the room. 


-C192> 


CHAPTER XIII 


T was an urgent, blind necessity 
that was laid upon him, rather 
than any action of his own will, 
which had hurried the King out 
of Uncle Bond’s writing room. 
None the less, now, as he descended the stair¬ 
case in the silent house, crossed the hall, and 
so passed out into the bright afternoon sun¬ 
shine in the garden, he was not altogether un¬ 
conscious of the motives which were driving 
him, in this strange way, to Judith. He 
wanted to see Judith alone. He wanted to talk 
to her. He wanted to explain things to her. 
And, most of all, he wanted Judith to explain— 
things which only she could explain—to him— 
A few minutes of rapid walking led him 
across the lawn, in amongst the trees, at the 
far end of the garden. A narrow path ran, 
through the trees, to the little clearing beyond, 
in which the summer house stood. He followed 
this path. 

The green shade of the trees was welcome 
after the glare of the sunlight on the lawn. 
A breeze rustled amongst the overhanging 
*C193> 













THE KING WHO 


leaves. Hidden away, somewhere, high up 
amongst the tree tops, a couple of jays 
chattered raucously in the sultry stillness. 

In a minute or two, the King caught a 
glimpse, through the trees, of the picturesque, 
crudely thatched roof of the summer house. 

A moment later, he saw Judith. 

Judith was sitting in a wicker work chair, 
at the entrance to the summer house, with her 
hands lying idle, for once, on her lap, gazing 
at the superb panorama of green fields, and 
wooded heights, which lay spread out before 
her in the sunshine. 

So intent was her gaze, she did not hear the 
King’s approach. 

The King halted, abruptly, on the edge of 
the clearing, and watched her. 

A smile flickered about Judith’s lips. The 
play of thought across her beautiful, vivid face 
reminded the King of the play of light and 
shade across some sunny hillside. He had 
never seen Judith alone with her own thoughts, 
like this, before. A kind of awe stole over 
him as he watched her. And yet, he soon 
grew impatient, and jealous, of these thoughts 
of Judith’s, which he could not share. 

Stepping back, in under the trees, he trod, 
-C190- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


with intention, on a broken branch which lay 
on the paths at his feet. 

The snapping of the branch served to recall 
Judith to her immediate surroundings. 

She did not start. She turned her head, 
slowly; and saw him. 

The rosy flush which the harvest sun had 
put into her cheeks deepened. Her dark, 
mysterious eyes lit up marvellously. 

“Alfred—you!” she cried. “I was just 
thinking about you. And I had no idea you 
were so near!” 

A feeling of guilt oppressed the King. The 
shining happiness, the radiant trust, of Judith’s 
face smote him like a rebuke. 

Slowly, he advanced across the clearing, and 
halted beside her chair. 

What was it he wanted to say? What could 
he say? 

Then, suddenly, words came to him. 

“You know—who I am,” he said. 

Quite unconsciously, he used the same words 
which he had used with Uncle Bond; but he 
used them now with a difference. With Uncle 
Bond the words had been a challenge. To 
Judith, he offered them as an apology. 

A shadow obscured the radiance of Judith’s 
-C195> 


THE KING WHO 

face; but her glance did not waver. It was as 
if she were meeting something for which she 
had long been prepared. 

“I have always known,” she acknowledged. 

A constraint that had no parallel in his 
experience held the King silent for a long 
minute or two. 

At last he forced himself to speak. 

“I have been here—sometime,” he began 
desperately. “I have been—upstairs with 
Uncle Bond. I have just had lunch with him 
in his room. Uncle Bond has explained—a 
good many things to me. I saw you come here 
from the window. I followed you at once. 
I had to follow you. I hardly know why. 
Was it because there are—things between us 
which only you can explain?” 

He broke off there abruptly. 

Judith knew nothing of all that had hap¬ 
pened, of course. Until she knew—something 
of all that had happened—of what use was 
his talk? If only he could tell her—something 
of what had happened—she might be able to 
begin to understand the bewilderment, and 
turmoil, within his overwrought, fevered brain. 
That she should be able to understand, that 
she should be able to sympathize with him, had 
become, at the moment, his paramount need. 
-C196> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


“Things have happened/’ he resumed des¬ 
perately. “Things have happened that you 
know nothing about, I think. Queer things 
are happening, over there, at this moment!” 

He half turned from her, as he spoke, and 
pointed across the sunlit landscape, at the 
distant, wooded horizon. 

“Martial Law has been proclaimed. The 
Labour people are making trouble. They have 
called a universal strike. A few of them want 
to get rid of me, and run up the Red Flag. 
They haven’t a chance, of course. The Duke 
is there. I know that you know the Duke! 
He was ready for them. He will be glad, I 
think, that they have given him this chance 
to crush them. Uncle Bond had a message 
from the Duke, waiting for me, when I arrived, 
to say that everything was—‘proceeding in 
accordance with plan.’ His plan! 

“The Duke wanted me to go to Windsor, or 
to Sandringham, to be out of the way of 
possible trouble. I said I’d come here. I told 
him, that it seemed to me, that if there was one 
man, in the whole country, who would be 
justified in striking, in leaving his work, I was 
that man. I told him that I’d go on strike too. 
Coming here was my way of going on strike. 
I thought that I was asserting myself. I 
-C197> 


THE KING WHO 

thought that I was showing that I was a man. 
All the time I was simply playing into the 
Duke’s hands, of course. The Duke would be 
quite content that I should come here, I think. 
He knows that I can’t get into any mischief 
here. He has seen to that! Uncle Bond tells 
me that there are half a dozen plain clothes 
men in the kitchen. Did you know that? A 
battalion of the Guards is to put a picket line 
round the house, too. At first I resented 
the Duke’s arrangements. Now, somehow, I 
don’t seem to care— 

“So much has happened in the last twenty- 
four hours, I have been through so much, I 
don’t seem to have any will, any feeling, any 
personality left. My own thoughts, my own 
words, my own actions seem to me, now—like 
the disjointed pieces of a jig-saw puzzle, which 
I shall never be able to put together again. 
I don’t know—where I am. I don’t know— 
where I stand. I am all at sea. The bottom 
seems, suddenly, to have dropped out of every¬ 
thing. I have been humoured, managed, con¬ 
trolled, all through. I can see that. Now, I 
am— just like a derelict ship. The rudder 
has gone. The charts are lost. I am being 
driven, this way and that, at the mercy of— 
everybody’s will, but my own— 

-C198> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


“Somehow, you are my only hope. Some¬ 
how, I feel that you will understand me— 
better than I understand myself. I suppose 
that that means that I love you. You know 
that. And I know that you love me. There 
can be no doubt about that, after last night. 
And yet, somehow, even that doesn’t excite me 
now. It doesn’t seem to mean—what I sup¬ 
pose it ought to mean—to me. Why doesn’t it 
mean—more to me? I am trying to tell you 
the truth, so far as I can see it. I am sick of 
mystery. I am utterly weary of deceit. It 
seems to me, that—our only hope is—plain 
speaking—” 

All this time, Judith had remained motion¬ 
less, and quiescent, in her chair. She turned, 
now, a little towards the King. Her expres¬ 
sion was grave, but friendly. 

“I want you to sit down, Alfred,” she said 
quietly. “Find another chair, and bring it out 
here. When you sit down, I will talk to you. 
I want to talk to you.” 

The King swung round into the summer 
house, and brought out another chair. Plac¬ 
ing it beside Judith’s, he sat down. Then he 
fixed his eyes upon her face. 

“I am glad that you have said, what you 
have said, Alfred,” Judith began. “I have 
-C199> 


THE KING WHO 

wanted you to give me your confidence, the 
whole of your confidence, for so long. I have 
always understood, I think, why you have been 
silent—about so many things. But I wanted 
you —to trust me. Now—you have trusted 
me— 

“I agree with you that the time has come for 
plain speaking. I am glad that it has come. I 
will speak as plainly as I can.” 

“First of all, you are not a derelict, Alfred. 
You are more like—a ship that has not found 
herself. You know what happens on a trial 
trip? The ship has not found herself. The 
Captain, and the crew, have got to get to know 
her. She ships the sea. Bolts and plates 
stretch and strain. Queer things happen in 
the engine room. And then, suddenly, all in a 
moment, the ship finds herself, rights herself. 
You will be—like that. Your trial trip has 
been run in a storm. You have been plunged, 
at the start into hurricane weather. But you 
will find yourself, right yourself. And, when 
your moment comes, you will sail the seas with 
any craft afloat. 

“But that is—politics! And you, and I, 

are not really greatly interested in politics, are 
we? What we are really interested in is— 
ourselves—our own intimacy, our own relation- 
-C200> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


ship. When you say that you don’t know 
where you are, where you stand, what you 
mean, at the back of your mind, is that you 
don’t know where we are, and where we stand. 
I will tell you where I stand. If I tell you 
where I stand, you will be able to see—your 
own position. I will speak, as plainly as I 
can, about myself—” 

Judith paused there, as if she wished to 
marshal her thoughts, and fit them with words. 

The King kept his eyes fixed upon her face. 
His instinct had been right. Judith understood 
him, better than he understood himself. Al¬ 
ready, he was conscious that the tumult within 
him was subsiding. Judith, with her clear 
eyes, and sure touch, would disentangle the 
mingled threads of their strange destiny, re¬ 
arrange them, and put them straight. 

“First of all, I want you to understand that 
I know that there can be no change in, no 
development, no outcome of—our friendship,” 
Judith resumed slowly. “And I want you to 
know that I am—content that it should be so. 
My life has been full of—much that many 
women miss. I had Jack, my husband. I 
have the Imps. I have Uncle Bond. And I 
have—you. 

“Your—friendship—has become very pre- 
-C201> 


THE KING WHO 


cious to me, Alfred. When you first came 
here, I liked you, I think, because you re¬ 
minded me of Jack. It was the sea, and the 
Navy, of course. The sea, and the Navy, 
mark a man, don’t they? They give him a 
certain style, and stamp. But that was only 
a superficial, surface resemblance, of course. 
I had not known you very long before I real¬ 
ized that you were quite unlike Jack. 

“Jack was simple, a boy, a dear. He was 
a splendid man, physically. At sea, he could 
sail anything that would float. He had no 
idea of fear. He did his duty. He obeyed 
orders. He never questioned anything. Life 
to him was always plain and straightforward. 
He always saw his way, like the course of his 
ship, clear before him. He never had a real 
trouble, or doubt. He was happy, even in 
his death. You know how he led the 
destroyers into action, and sank an enemy 
ship, before he went down himself? I—loved 
him. But I loved him, as I love the Imps. 
When he was at home, on shore, with me, I 
used to feel that I had three boys to look 
after— 

“You are different. Your mind works all 
the time. You doubt, you question, every- 
-C202> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


thing. You see all round things to which 
Jack would never have given a thought. 
Your brain is always active—too active. Life 
to you is always complex, puzzling. You 
live more, and harder, in a day, in your 
brain, than Jack did in a year. It was when 
I began to understand what was going on 
in the brain, behind your tired blue eyes, that 
I learnt—to love you. Jack had no imagina¬ 
tion. You have—too much imagination. I 
loved Jack. But you—you could carry me off 
my feet— 

“That is just what happened last night. I 
want you to understand about last night, 
Alfred. It is important that you should under¬ 
stand about last night, I think. A good deal 
of your trouble, of your bewilderment, and un¬ 
certainty, today, is because of last night, I 
believe. And it may—happen again. 

“I have always been very careful with you 
—until last night. I know that I—attract 
you. At one time, I was afraid that that 
might interfere with, that it might spoil, our 
friendship. But, as I came to know you bet¬ 
ter, as I came to understand the hold, the 
control, you have over yourself, I began to 
realize that it was not you, but myself, that I 
-C203> 


the king who 

had to fear. I was very careful. I watched 
myself. And then, last night, after all, I 
failed you— 

“But you had just been Crowned! And, 
after your Coronation, after all that you had 
been through, you got away, as soon as you 
could, to come and see me! That in itself 
was — a tribute—which no woman could have 
resisted, I think. And you were different. 
Your Coronation has made a difference, Alfred. 
And you were wearing the King’s colours. 
You remember that? And you talked about 
the King needing all his friends. And, some¬ 
how, just for the moment, I wanted you to 
trust me, to give me the whole of your confi- 
hdence. I have always wanted your confi¬ 
dence. And then—I was afraid. And I 
took you in to the Imps for safety. And 
their crowns were there. And I couldn’t re¬ 
sist playing with fire. And you picked up 
Button’s crown. And I felt all your thoughts 
—bitter, ironic, painful thoughts. I am much 
more responsive to your moods than you real¬ 
ize, I think. And I wanted to comfort you. 
And I looked at you. And you saw what I 
felt— 

“It was just as if I had said, all the things 
which we have always left unsaid, wasn’t it? 

-C20O 


WENT ON STRIKE 


It was just as if I had shouted aloud, all the 
things which we have always been so care¬ 
ful to ignore. It—troubled you—then. It 
troubles you still. It will be a long time, be¬ 
fore I shall be able to forgive myself, for what 
happened last night— 

“I have always wanted to help you, to serve 
you, to make things easier for you, you see— 
not to add to your difficulties. But we have 
helped you, Uncle Bond, and I, and the Imps, 
haven’t we! It has been good for you to come 
here, to us, in Paradise, for rest, and quiet, 
and peace, hasn’t it? There is an old fairy 
story about a man who was haunted by his 
shadow, that the Imps are very fond of, that 
I have always connected with you, in my own 
mind. You are haunted by your shadow, 
aren’t you? You are haunted by the shadow 
of your rank, of your position, of your respon¬ 
sibility. But you have always been able to 
forget your shadow here with us—until last 
night—haven’t you? It has always been wait¬ 
ing for you, when you went away in the morn¬ 
ing, you picked it up again in the lane, on your 
way back to town, I know. But, while you 
were here, you never saw your shadow, until 
last night, did you?” 

“It has always been just like that,” the King 

-C205> 


THE KING WHO 

murmured. “With you, I have always been 
able to live, in the present moment—” 

“It always shall he just like that,” Judith 
declared. 

Then she stood up abruptly. 

“But I am not going to talk any more now,” 
she said. “I must go in. The Imps will be 
awake by now. But I shan’t bring them out 
here. I want you to rest. I promised the 
Duke, that I would see that you got as much 
rest as possible, whenever you came here. I— 
like the Duke. He—cares more for you— 
than you realize, Alfred, I think. You will try 
to rest now, won’t you? How much sleep have 
you had in the last twenty-four hours? Three 
hours, last night? You are too reckless. I 
am not surprised the King’s physician is turn¬ 
ing grey. The Duke told me that. You can’t 
stay up on the bridge indefinitely. You will 
find that you will be able to sleep now—after 
all my plain speaking! Are you comfortable 
in that chair? Let me give you this cushion—” 
She lingered beside him, seeking to make him 
comfortable, as a woman will. 

“I treat you, just as if you were one of my 
boys, don’t I?” she said. “I know you like 
it. But I do it—in self-defence.” 

-C 206 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 

The King submitted, passively, to her minis¬ 
trations. 

Then he caught her hand, and raised it to 
his lips. 

His action, like so many of his actions, was 
quite impulsive. But he did not regret it. 

In what other way could he have expressed 
so well, his admiration, his gratitude, his re¬ 
newed trust? 

Judith blushed charmingly. 

Then, suddenly, she leant down over him, 
and kissed him, lightly, on the forehead. 

“I kissed you like that, last night, when you 
were asleep,” she said, with an odd, breathless, 
little catch in her voice. 

Then she turned, and hurried away, through 
the trees, back to the house,— 

A great drowsiness took possession of the 
King. He did not resist it. He gave himself 
up to it gladly— 

His instinct had served him well. Judith 
understood him, better than he understood 
himself. Judith was right. She was always 
right. The larger part of his trouble, it 
seemed to him, now, had been, as she said, his 
bewilderment, his uncertainty, as to where he 
and she stood. Now that Judith had defined 
< 207 ^ 


THE KING WHO 


their position—as plainly as it could be defined 
with safety—a great burden seemed to have 
been lifted from his mind. Judith understood 
him. Nothing else mattered. Other things 
—could not touch him here in Paradise. Other 
things—could wait. 

His shadow— 

Half asleep, as he was already, he sat up 
abruptly. 

The bright, afternoon sun was shining full 
on to the little clearing, throwing no shadow— 

His shadow was not there— 

Leaning back, contentedly, in his chair, he 
closed his eyes again. 

Almost at once, he slept. 


*C208> 


CHAPTER XIV 


LIGHT, butterfly touch on his 
cheek awoke the King. 

He had slept so deeply, and 
so long, it was a minute or two, 
before he fully regained con- 


Then he found himself gazing at Bill’s glee¬ 
ful, cherubic face. 

“Lazy, lazy, slug-a-bed, Uncle Alfred,” Bill 
chanted. “ ‘Bed by daytime’ was over—ever 
so long ago. We’ve been making the hay, 
the whole afternoon. And you’ve been asleep 
all the time, you poor, tired dear. But mother 
said we could wake you now.” 

A sudden tenderness, for the shining inno¬ 
cence of the little fellow’s smiling face, gripped 
the King. 

Catching him up in his arms, he shook him, 
playfully, in mid air. 

Then he set him down on his feet again, and 
turning—saw Button, on the other side of his 
chair. 

“Wonderful harvest weather, this we’re hav¬ 
ing,” Button remarked. “But, if it’s good for 
*C209> 



sciousness. 









THE KING WHO 


the hay, it’s bad for the roots. We want rain 
for the roots, there’s no denying.” 

It was an extremely elderly Button who 
spoke. 

The King recognized one of the youngster’s 
habitual quotations. 

It sounded like the weather lore of old 
Jevons, the gardener. 

“It’s Coronation weather, you see, Button,” 
he said absently. 

Button became all boy, seven-year-old boy, 
at once. 

“Were you in the procession, Uncle Al¬ 
fred?” he cried. “Mother told us about it. 
Did you see the King? Did you wear your 
sword? Did the people cheer?” 

“Tell us about the flags, and the ’lumina- 
tions, and the fireworks,” Bill demanded, join¬ 
ing in, in the little hurricane of questions. 
‘‘Mother says the King rode in his coach. 
Why didn’t he ride on one of his horses? 
Did he wear his crown in the coach? Is his 
crown heavy?” 

“Mother says the King is quite young. 
That is funny, isn’t it?” Button predomi¬ 
nated. “All the Kings in the fairy stories are 
old, old men, with long, white beards. Do 
you think he likes being King? Mother says 
-C210> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


he has to work very hard, that he can’t do 
just what he likes, and please himself, that 
he always has to think—first of England, and 
never of himself. That doesn’t sound as if he 
had much fun, does it?” 

“Do you know him? Is he a friend of 
yours?” Bill enquired. 

By this time, the King’s dormant ironic 
sense had been most effectively aroused. He 
was amused? Yes. But more than one of 
the youngsters’ innocent shafts had reached 
home. 

And Judith was not greatly interested in 
politics! 

“First of England, and never of himself?” 

Had he not always thought—first of himself? 

“Mother says the King was in the Navy, 
like you and our daddy, until they told him 
that he had to be King,” Button continued. 
“Daddy died in battle, you know. But it isn’t 
sad. Mother has his medals. When I grow 
up, I’m to have his sword, and go into the 
Navy, too. Mother says it’s the King’s Serv¬ 
ice. When Bill is big enough, mother says 
he’ll be as big as I am some day, he’s going 
into the Navy, too. He’ll be in the King’s 
Service, too. But I’m to have daddy’s sword, 
because I’m the eldest.” 

-C211> 


THE KING WHO 

Bill scrambled up on to the King’s knees. 

“You will tell us all about the King, and 
his procession, and the ’luminations, and the 
fireworks, won’t you, dear?” he coaxed. 

“Some day—perhaps I will,” the King said. 
“But it is a long, and a difficult story, and it— 
isn’t finished yet. I don’t think the King 
likes being King, very much, though. Mother 
is right. He—can’t do just what he likes. He 
hasn’t been King very long—but he has learnt 
that, already. Perhaps, I don’t know, he may 
learn, if he has the chance, in time, to think 
first of England, and never of himself. He 
doesn’t have much fun. I know that. His 
crown is—heavier than he likes. He was very 
tired of it all, yesterday, I know. He didn’t 
see —much of his own procession. He saw the 
flags, and the crowds, and he heard the cheers. 
Yes. The people cheered! And he bowed, 
and smiled, and played his part. But I don’t 
think he enjoyed it very much. I think he 
was—rather afraid of it all, in his own heart. 
He didn’t wear his sword. They won’t let 
the King fight, nowadays, you see. He has to 
let other men—brave men like your daddy— 
fight for him. He—doesn’t like that! That 
is why it is better to be in the King’s Service, 
in the Navy, as you are going to be, when you 
-C212> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


grow tall enough, than to be—the King—” 

“Didn’t they let him sit up to see the ’lum- 
inations, and the fireworks?” Bill asked, sur¬ 
prised, and puzzled. 

“Yes. They let him sit up to see them,” 
the King acknowledged hastily. “And there 
were illuminated aeroplanes over the palace. 
And “God Save the King,” and “God Save 
King Alfred the Second,” in letters of fire, on 
all the houses—” 

“Here’s mother,” Button announced. 

Judith appeared, advancing through the 
trees. 

Button ran to meet her. 

Bill remained faithful to the King’s knee. 

The King frowned. He understood, sud¬ 
denly, he thought, why Judith had sent the 
Imps to wake him. The Imps were protec¬ 
tion, safety. Judith was right, of course. It 
was wise of her to take such precautions—in 
self-defence. And yet, somehow, at the mo¬ 
ment, he resented her wisdom. 

“You have had a good sleep, Alfred,” Judith 
said, smiling pleasantly, as she halted beside 
him. “It is nearly six o’clock now. We 
came, and looked at you, at tea-time, but you 
were so fast asleep, it seemed a shame to 
wake you.” 


-C213> 


THE KING WHO 

The King’s resentment fell from him. He 
felt ashamed of himself. It was of him, and 
not of herself—did she ever think of her¬ 
self?—that Judith had been thinking. 

“I feel very much better, thank you. The 
rest has done me good,” he said. 

“Uncle Alfred has been telling us about the 
King, mother,” Button explained. “He says 
he doesn’t think the King likes being King 
very much. He can’t do what he likes, just 
as you said. They won’t let him wear his 
sword even, and he can’t fight for himself. He 
has to let other people fight for him. I’m glad 
I’m not King. I’d rather be a sailor, and wear 
daddy’s sword.” 

The King put Bill down off his knee, and 
stood up hastily, glad to avoid, in this way, 
meeting Judith’s glance— 

“Picaback! Picaback!” Bill cried. 

“A race!” Button shouted. 

It was the Imps’ hour for play. 

Always, in the evening, between tea and din¬ 
ner, Judith joined them, in the garden, in a 
riotous frolic. 

This evening the King, too, was inevitably, 
pressed into their service. 

The King mounted Bill on his shoulders, 
willingly enough. 


<2Uy 


WENT ON STRIKE 

Button claimed Judith as his mettlesome 
charger. 

The race, it was decided, should be to the 
house. 

And so, with Button urging Judith forward, 
and Bill spurring the King on, remorselessly, 
with his heels, the race began. 

The result was, for some time, in doubt. 

Ultimately, going all out across the lawn, 
Bill, on the King, won by a short length. 

Whether Bill, or the King, was the more de¬ 
lighted at this success, it would have taken a 
very acute observer to judge. 

In the ensuing hour, the King found himself 
called upon to play a variety of parts, which 
would have made exhaustive demands upon 
the resources of the most experienced quick- 
change artist. 

A Wild Beast in the trees, Man Friday, a 
Red Indian, a Cannibal King, and a Policeman, 
were amongst his more prominent roles. 
Flinging himself into the spirit of the play, 
with a gusto which he caught, in part, from 
Judith, he entirely forgot himself. 

The Imps’ laughter rang out, blithe and 
free, through the garden, and about the house. 
Whenever their interest, or their energy failed, 
Judith was quick with some delectable pro¬ 
mts;}- 


THE KING WHO 


posal, unlimited in resource. With all their 
unspoilt imagination, Button and Bill were 
hard put to it, at times, to keep pace with the 
whims of their radiant, laughing mother. Ju¬ 
dith played with all the abandon of a child, 
directed by the intellect of an adult. To the 
King this combination was irresistible. He 
had no thought now apart from the present 
moment. 

Once only, were he and Judith alone to¬ 
gether. It was in the course of a wild game 
of hide and seek with which the play ended. 
It was their turn to hide. Quite by chance, 
they sought the same cover—a large rhododen¬ 
dron bush in the drive. They crouched to¬ 
gether, behind the bush, side by side. 

Judith was flushed, panting a little, and a 
trifle dishevelled. 

“Isn’t this fun?” she whispered, turning to 
him with shining eyes. 

“I am ten years old—for the first time,” 
the King replied. 

Judith’s face clouded. 

“When you were a boy—was the shadow 
there already?” she asked. 

“I think that it must have been, although 
I didn’t know it,” the King muttered. “I ex¬ 
pect it was my own fault—but I was lonely. 

-C 216 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


I knew, I think we all knew—that we were not 
like other children. It wasn’t until I went to 
sea that—I was able to forget that I was a 
Prince!” 

“Poor, lonely, little Prince!” Judith mur¬ 
mured. “But when he went to sea, he was 
happy?” 

“The sea knocked a lot of nonsense out of 
me,” the King replied. “At sea, a man is a 
man, and nothing else. When I had learnt 
that, I was happy.” 

Then the Imps burst in upon them, and the 
play was at an end. 

Judith drove the Imps before her, into the 
house. 

For them—a light supper, and then, an early 
bedtime. 

The King made his way into the house in 
turn. 

It was time to dress for dinner. 

A rich content, a sense of absolute well¬ 
being, was with the King now. Was it not 
always so, when he had been with Judith, and 
the Imps? The bewilderment, the turmoil, 
and the fever, which had raged within him, 
only a few hours ago, seemed very far away. 

Here, in Paradise, the present moment was 
good! 


<2173- 


THE KING WHO 


Insensibly—had Judith contrived it?—he 
had stepped into the quiet old inn of “Con¬ 
tent,” on the corner of the market-place. He 
had turned his back on—the procession—on 
the fight in the market-place. He would keep 
his back turned to them. He would not even 
risk the window view. 

Alfred, the sailor, was not dead! 

It was Alfred, the sailor, who entered the 
house. 

It was Alfred, the sailor, who passed into his 
own room. 

Here, a surprise awaited him. Laid out in 
the room were evening clothes. On the 
dressing-table were familiar toilet trifles from 
the palace. 

Alfred, the sailor, fled. 

It was the King, who halted, in the middle 
of the room, and looked about him. 

This, he realized, must have been the out¬ 
come of the old Duke’s thoughtfulness. The 
Duke alone could have given the orders which 
had made this possible. That the Duke 
should have found time to attend to so trivial 
a matter, time to give orders to a valet to 
pack a bag, when he was giving orders to main¬ 
tain a throne—it was almost ludicrous! 

And yet, it was like the Duke. 

-C 218 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


It was like the Duke, to remind him, to 
assure him, in this way, that he, the King, was 
of importance, that he was being served, well 
served, in small matters, as well as in great. 
Something of the sort must have been in the 
old Duke’s mind, when he gave the orders, 
which had provided him, the King, with a 
dress shirt—and studs!—now, when he wanted 
them— 

No doubt, some member of the palace house¬ 
hold staff, Smith perhaps, had been sent down, 
specially, from the palace, with these things, 
during the afternoon. Like the police, and 
the military, he would have been given orders 
to remain invisible. That was as it should be. 
A valet would have been out of place in Para¬ 
dise. Alfred, the sailor, would be entitled to 
a servant, of course. But he would hardly 
accompany him on—“a short leave of ab¬ 
sence”— 

The King was glad to change. 

He was glad to think, as he dressed leisurely, 
that he would appear suitably clad at Judith’s 
table. 

There is a stimulation in clothes which he 
was young enough to feel. 

He was still struggling with his dress tie, 
when the dinner gong sounded. 

<2 193 - 


CHAPTER XV 


SMALL, panelled room, on the 
left of the hall, and on the west 
side of the house, the dining 
room was bright with the light 
of the setting sun, as the King 
entered. Late as he was himself, he was sur¬ 
prised to find that only Judith was there to re¬ 
ceive him. She was standing at the window 
doors, which opened out of the room onto the 
verandah, gazing at the flaming glory of the 
sunset sky. Wearing a silver gown, that had a 
metallic glitter, which gave her something of a 
barbaric splendour, she seemed, at the moment, 
almost a stranger to the King. But she turned 
to welcome him with her usual friendly little 
nod, and smile. 

“It will be no use our waiting for Uncle 
Bond,” she announced. “He may be here, in a 
minute or two. Or he may not come for half 
an hour, or more. ‘Cynthia’ may have got a 
firm grip on him, you see. Uncle Bond, or 
perhaps I ought to say ‘Cynthia,’ hates being 
interrupted for meals. I never wait for him.” 

Sitting down at the foot of the dinner table, 

< 220 > 








WENT ON STRIKE 


as she spoke, she waved the King into his place, 
on her right, facing the open window doors, 
and the view of the garden, and of the wooded 
landscape beyond, which they framed. 

“I hope ‘Cynthia’ has got a firm grip on Un¬ 
cle Bond,” she went on. “I shall have you all 
to myself, then. You ought to have said that, 
you know. But you never make pretty 
speeches. That is why I said it for you.” 

The King sat down at the dinner table, and 
picked up his napkin, mechanically. 

“Are pretty speeches allowed—between us?” 
he asked. 

“Why not? Just for once?” Judith replied. 
“Why shouldn’t we play at them, like a game 
with the Imps? Shall I begin? I will give 
you an opening. Do you like my dress? And 
my hair? I dressed for you. I know you 
like me, of course. But there are times, when 
a woman likes to be told—what she knows!” 

The King was surprised, and not a little em¬ 
barrassed. This was not the Judith he had 
expected. This was not the Judith of the af¬ 
ternoon. This was that other strange, danger¬ 
ous Judith, of the night before. She had 
warned him that—it might happen again. 
True. But he had never imagined that it 
would happen again, so soon— 

<22\y 


THE KING WHO 


The entrance of the light-footed parlour¬ 
maid, in neat black, who was responsible for 
the service of the meal, at that moment, cov¬ 
ered the King’s silent confusion. 

So long as the maid was in the room only 
trivial surface conversation was possible. 

The King compelled himself to play his 
necessary, outward social part. But he was 
uneasily aware, all the time, inwardly, that 
Judith had noticed his embarrassment and that 
she was likely to resume her unexpected attack 
at the first opportunity. His intuition proved 
correct; but only partially correct. Judith 
was quick to take advantage of the first of the 
maid’s temporary absences from the room to 
return to more intimate talk. But she struck, 
at once, a quieter, graver note. 

“What is it, Alfred?” she asked. “Do I 
trouble you? I am sorry. It was selfish of 
me. I knew that I was playing with fire, of 
course. But—a woman grows tired of leaving 
everything unsaid.” 

Her implied appeal, and her insistence on 
her feminine weakness—a thing unprecedented 
in her!—moved the King. He felt ashamed of 
his own caution. 

“If I had the right to make pretty 
speeches—” he began. 

-C 222* 


WENT ON STRIKE 


Then he checked himself abruptly. 

What was the use of evasion? Had not Ju¬ 
dith and he agreed that plain speaking was 
their only hope? Judith had spoken plainly 
enough. The least he could do was to speak 
plainly, too. And, suddenly, at the back of 
his mind, now, were thoughts, which he had 
never suspected in himself, clamouring for 
expression,— 

“But I haven’t the right!” he exclaimed. 
“I haven’t any right to be here, really. I see 
that now. I am in an utterly false position. 
I ought not to be here. I ought not to have 
come here, as I have done. It was not fair— 
to either of us. It was asking too much of— 
both of us. Why haven’t I seen that before? 
I shut my eyes to it, deliberately, I am afraid. 
It was a mistake. It has been a mistake all 
through. I have been absolutely selfish. I 
have thought only of myself. It is only right 
that I should have to pay for my mistake. 
But the payment is all on your side. It has 
been give, give, give, all the time, on your side. 
And take, take, take, all the time, on mine. 
And I can make no return—” 

“The giving all on our side! You have 
made no return!” Judith cried. “It isn’t true, 
Alfred. You know it isn’t true! But, even if 
-C223> 


THE KING WHO 

it were true—a woman loves a man who allows 
her to give to him.” 

“Isn’t that just the trouble?” the King ex¬ 
claimed, exasperated by the conflict of feeling 
within him into a flash of unusual insight. 

Then the parlour-maid re-entered the room. 

Hard on the heels of the parlour-maid, Uncle 
Bond made his appearance. 

The little man had not dressed for dinner. 
He was still wearing his usual, loose-fitting 
shooting clothes. 

“You will excuse my clothes, I know, my 
boy,” he remarked as he slipped into his place, 
at the head of the table. “It has taken me all 
my time to get here at all. I have just had a 
violent quarrel, upstairs, with ‘Cynthia.’ I 
told her that you were here to dinner today, 
that you were an honoured guest, and that I 
wished to show you proper attention. She 
told me to get on with my work. I told her 
that I would not be hag-ridden—that caught 
her on the raw!—that she was merely my fa¬ 
miliar spirit, not my master. Then I slammed 
the door on her. And here we are!” 

It was difficult to resist Uncle Bond’s chuck¬ 
ling good-humour. The King found himself 
smiling at the little man’s characteristic non¬ 
sense, almost in spite of himself. 

-C220- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


Judith proved more obdurate. 

Judith appeared to be really piqued by Uncle 
Bond’s entrance. As the meal proceeded, she 
became increasingly silent. An obtuser man 
than Uncle Bond must have become quickly 
conscious that something was wrong. From 
the mischievous twinkle which shone in the lit¬ 
tle man’s sparkling eyes, the King judged 
that Uncle Bond was only too well aware of the 
tension that had sprung up, so unexpectedly, 
between Judith and himself. 

Oddly enough, Uncle Bond did nothing to 
relieve the situation. The little man was, or 
affected to be, very hungry. Setting himself, 
ably seconded by the parlour-maid, to make 
good the courses which had already been 
served, he confined his attention, almost en¬ 
tirely to his plate. 

The meal went forward, for some time, in 
these circumstances, with a minimum of talk, 
which was not far removed from dumb show. 

The broad rays of the setting sun were shin¬ 
ing full into the room now through the open 
window doors immediately facing the King. In 
the awkward, recurring silences at the table, 
his eyes turned, again and again, to the win¬ 
dow doors, and the superb landscape which 
they framed. 


-C225> 


THE KING WHO 

Field and wood, winding road, and blossom¬ 
ing hedgerow, cottage and farm, lay, peaceful 
and serene, spread out there, before him, in 
the bright, evening light. 

And beyond, beyond it all, lay London. 

What was happening there? 

The question startled the King. 

Engrossed in his own thoughts, absorbed by 
his own emotions, he had entirely forgotten 
the crisis. 

Was everything still proceeding in accord¬ 
ance with plan? Why had he not heard from 
the Duke? Had not the Duke said that he 
would be communicating with him? 

A sudden impatience with, a new contempt 
for, himself, swept over the King. 

What right had he to be sitting there, in 
peace and quietness, when there was uproar 
and tumult, perhaps, when great events were 
shaping themselves, perhaps, over there, be¬ 
yond the wooded skyline? 

The Duke had urged him to leave the pal¬ 
ace. The Duke had urged him to seek a re¬ 
treat, an asylum, out of the way of possible 
trouble. 

All that was true. 

And yet, here again, by his own act, had he 
-C 226 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 

not placed himself—in an utterly false po¬ 
sition? 

This was not his place! 

It seemed to be his fate, that he should al¬ 
ways do the wrong thing! 

His worst enemy was, indeed—himself! 

The meal dragged on, drearily, and intermi¬ 
nably, it seemed now, to the King. 

Would it never end? 

At last, the parlour-maid put the decanters 
on the table, and withdrew, finally, from the 
room. 

A moment later, Uncle Bond stood up, 
glass in hand. 

“I see no reason why we should not drink 
our usual toast, Judith, 5 ’ he said. “On the 
contrary, I think there is every reason why we 
should drink it, tonight— 

“The King ! 55 

Judith sprang up, and raised her glass in 
turn. 

“The King—God bless him!” she said. 

The King had picked up his own glass, me¬ 
chanically, and half risen to his feet. 

He set his glass down again on the table, 
now with a shaking hand, and sank back into 
his chair. Then, hardly conscious of what he 
< 221 ^ 


THE KING WHO 


was doing, he bowed, first to Judith, and then 
to Uncle Bond. He could not see their faces. 
There was a mist before his eyes— 

“The King!” 

Their usual toast. They drank it nightly, 
then, thinking of him. For them it had a spe¬ 
cial, personal meaning. With them it was not 
only a pledge of loyalty. With them it was a 
pledge of affection, too. 

The King was profoundly moved. 

Then, suddenly, his brain raced furiously. 

“The King!” 

Judith and Uncle Bond would not be alone 
in drinking the toast that evening. All over 
the world, wherever men and women, of the 
true English stock, were gathered together, 
would not the toast be drunk, that evening, 
with a special enthusiasm, a special meaning? 
Not with the special, personal meaning, the 
special, personal affection, with which Judith 
and Uncle Bond had drunk it. That was out¬ 
side the question. The toast was a bigger 
thing than any personal affection, than any 
personal feeling. It was a bigger thing than 
—any King— 

“The King!” 

Had not his own pulse quickened, had not 
his blood flowed more quickly through his 
-C 228 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 

veins, at the words? They had acted upon 
him like the call of a trumpet. To what? 

“The King!” 

What did the words stand for? For the big¬ 
gest things. For England, loyalty, patriotism, 
for ideals of service, personal, and national. 
No man or woman drinking the toast thought 
and felt precisely as any other man or woman 
standing beside them. But they were all 
united, all their varied thoughts, and ideals, 
and emotions were linked together by the 
words. 

And he—the King—was the recognized, the 
accredited, figurehead, of all their varied 
thoughts, ideals, emotions. 

Was not this the reason, that he might serve 
as a link between the varied ideals of all his 
people, that the King, his father, had been con¬ 
tent to live a man apart, isolated, lonely, re¬ 
mote? Was it not for this that his brother, 
the Prince, had prepared himself, sacrificing 
himself, never sparing himself? 

And he had followed them unwillingly— 

A new resolve, or something as near akin to 
a new resolve as he dare venture upon, in his 
new distrust, his new contempt, for himself, 
was registered by the King, at that moment. 

If the old Duke “cut the rope”—and the old 
-C229> 


THE KING WHO 

Duke would, he must “cut the rope”—he, the 
King, would shape the course of his life, dif¬ 
ferently— 

It was not, he realized, that these were 
new thoughts with him. They were, rather, 
thoughts which had lurked, until now, at the 
back of his mind, overlaid by that preoccupa¬ 
tion with himself, by that thinking first of him¬ 
self, which given the chance, given the time, 
it would be his business, now, to alter— 

The shutting of the door, behind him, at this 
point, startled the King out of his reverie. 

Looking round, he found that Judith had left 
the table, and slipped quietly out of the room. 

He turned to his right—and met Uncle 
Bond’s curious glance. 

Uncle Bond pushed a cigar box across the 
table, towards him. 

The King chose a cigar absently. 

Uncle Bond selected a long, and formidable 
looking cheroot, lit it, and then leaning back 
in his chair, began to talk. 

“I would give a good deal to be able to read 
your thoughts, my boy,” he remarked. “Per¬ 
haps I can read—some of them! If it were 
not for the bond of friendship between us, I 
should be tempted to regard you as a most 
fascinating psychological study. Your posi- 
-C230> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


tion, the circumstances in which you find your¬ 
self, at the moment are—unique. And you 
are becoming conscious of that, and of many 
other things, unless I am much mistaken. Our 
little comedy is drawing to its close, I fancy. 
Meanwhile, shall we share our thoughts? Or 
do you feel that silence is as essential, as it is 
said to be golden?” 

The King hesitated, for a moment. His re¬ 
cent thoughts could be shared with no one— 
not even with Uncle Bond, not even with 
Judith— 

Then, as he looked up, in his perplexity, his 
eyes were caught by the landscape, framed in 
the open window doors, in front of him. In¬ 
stinctively, he fell back upon his earlier 
thoughts, of what was happening over there, 
beyond the wooded skyline, of why he had not 
heard from the Duke. 

“I have been wondering what is happening 
over there,” he said, indicating the far horizon 
with a gesture. “I begin to want to know 
what is happening. The Duke said he would 
be communicating with me, you know. I sup¬ 
pose you haven’t heard from the Duke again?” 

“No. I have not heard from the Duke,” 
Uncle Bond replied. “But no news is good 
new T s, in this case, my boy, I am certain. My 
< 231 > 


THE KING WHO 


own idea is that the Duke will send no message 
until—everything has proceeded ‘in accord¬ 
ance with plan’—until he has, definitely, ‘cut 
the rope.’ Then, and not until then, I think 
we may expect to see him here, in person.” 

The King was silent. He was conscious 
that he would be ready for, that he would be 
glad to see, the Duke, when he came. 

Uncle Bond, with his uncanny, unerring in¬ 
stinct, seemed to read his thoughts. 

“Our intimacy is, I think, nearing its end. 
Or, if it is not nearing its end, it is approaching 
a time when it will be, inevitably, changed,” 
he remarked. “Ours has been a strange as¬ 
sociation, my boy. But I am glad to think 
that it has been as pleasant, as it has been 
strange. It has been so to Judith, and to my¬ 
self. And to you? You have enjoyed the 
hospitality which we have been so glad to offer 
you. And we have been able to do you some 
service—a greater service, perhaps, than we 
ever intended, a greater service, perhaps, than 
you, as yet, realize. 

“We shall not see as much of you, in the near 
future, I fancy, as we have done, in the 
past. Probably, we shall see less of you. 
Probably, a time will come when your very 
-C232> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


welcome visits here will cease altogether. But, 
I am glad to think, you will not be able to for¬ 
get us. We shall always have a place in your 
memory—a place of our own—a place like no 
one else’s. As the years go by, you will fill a 
more and more important, a more and more 
distinguished position. But you will not for¬ 
get us. You will think of us gratefully. 

“I want, Judith and I both want, your mem¬ 
ory of us to be without regret, to be a wholly 
pleasant memory. A mental oasis, perhaps, of 
a kind useful to a man who is condemned to 
fill a conspicuous, and responsible position— 
in the procession. There has been nothing in 
our association which you, or we, can regret, 
thus far. Be on your guard, my boy. See 
to it, that nothing occurs, that any of us need 
regret, in retrospect— 

“I have fallen into a bad habit of gravity 
with you, I observe. I seem to have taken to 
obtruding my advice upon you. The Heavy 
Father! This afternoon. And now, again, 
tonight. I apologize! 

“And now I must revert to ‘Cynthia’! We 
have had a wonderful day. You always bring 
me luck. But ‘Cynthia,’ when she once gets 
going is insatiable. I shall have to put in two 
-C233> 


THE KING WHO 

or three more hours, with her, upstairs, to¬ 
night. We are thousands of words ahead of 
the time-table already. I shall be able to be 
idle for weeks after today. But there is a cli¬ 
max in the offing—a climax, a couple of pages 
ahead, which cannot wait. I must let it take 
its own course, shape itself, and get it down on 
to paper. It never pays to let a climax wait!” 

The little man stood up, and leaving the ta¬ 
ble, crossed the room to the door. But, by the 
door, he paused. 

“Judith, I see, is waiting for you, in the hall, 
my boy,” he announced. “She will give you 
some music, I dare say. If you should happen 
to want me—I am upstairs ” 

Then he disappeared. 

In spite of Uncle Bond’s announcement that 
Judith was waiting for him, the King lingered 
at the dinner table. Somehow, he did not 
wish—to be alone with Judith again. Was he 
afraid of her? Or of himself? He hardly 
knew. But he shrank instinctively from the 
ordeal. It would be an ordeal. The conse¬ 
quences, the inevitable consequences, of his 
false position, of his reckless self-indulgence, 
were closing about him— 

Suddenly, the soft notes of the piano, in the 
hall, reached his ears. 

-C234> 


WENT ON STRIKE 

Judith had begun her music, without waiting 
for him. 

The King had no cultivated taste in music. 
The rattling melodies of the wardroom piano, 
or gramophone, were his greatest pleasure. 
Like most people, where music was concerned, 
he was merely an animal, soothed or irritated, 
by noise. 

Judith’s music was soft and low. 

It soothed him. 

Well, the ordeal had to be faced! 

Finishing his glass of port, he stood up. 

Then he passed, reluctantly, out of the din¬ 
ing room, into the hall. 

In the hall, the shadows of the twilight were 
gathering fast. Judith’s silver dress shone, ob¬ 
scurely luminous, in the far corner, where she 
was seated at the piano. She turned, and wel¬ 
comed him with her friendly little nod, and 
went on playing. 

The King sat down on the ottoman, at the 
foot of the staircase. It was the furthest dis¬ 
tance that he could keep from Judith. 

Judith played on, passing from one melody 
to another, playing throughout from memory, 
odd movements, and the music of songs, all 
soft and low, and all, it seemed, now, to the 
King, plaintive, sad. 

< 235 ^ 


THE KING WHO 


The twilight deepened in the hall. 

Neither the twilight, nor the music, brought 
peace to the King. 

A sense of fatality, a feeling of impending 
crisis, was with him. 

And he was afraid, now—of himself. 

At last, the music ceased. 

Judith stood up. 

The King rose to his feet, in turn. 

And then, suddenly, blind instinct came to 
his aid, counselling flight. 

Without a word, with the briefest possible 
glance in Judith’s direction, he turned sharply 
round on his heel, and passed quickly up the 
staircase, to Uncle Bond’s quarters. 

He flung open the door of Uncle Bond’s 
writing room, without knocking— 

“I have come—to place myself under ar¬ 
rest, Uncle Bond,” he exclaimed. “I have 
come—to put myself into safe custody. I 
can’t—trust myself.” 

Uncle Bond, busy at his writing table, laid 
down his pencil, and turned in his chair. 

“Shut the door, my boy,” he said. “I ac¬ 
cept the responsibility you have offered me. 
It is a responsibility which I would have ac¬ 
cepted before—but I did not care to interfere, 
.-C2363- 


WENT ON STRIKE 

between you and Judith, until it was offered to 
me.” 

The King shut the door. 

“Fortunately, ‘Cynthia’ and I have just fin¬ 
ished our climax,” Uncle Bond chuckled. “I 
can blow out the candles, and devote myself 
to you.” 

He blew out the candles on the writing 
table, the only light in the room. 

“Sit down, my boy,” he said. “Can you 
feel your way to the sofa? The moon rises 
late tonight. In this dubious, half light, we 
may be able to talk—at our ease.” 

The King found his way to the sofa, under 
the windows, without any difficulty, and sat 
down. 

A dusky veil, which was not darkness, had 
been drawn over the room, when Uncle Bond 
blew out the candles. Outside the windows, 
there was still a luminous glow in the sky, 
where one or two stars shone palely. A couple 
of bats fluttered, to and fro, across the length 
of the windows. Some martins, settling down 
for the night, in their nests, under the eaves 
of the house, twittered excitedly— 

“Shall we talk?” Uncle Bond asked sud¬ 
denly. “I am ready to talk. And yet—I 
-C237> 


THE KING WHO 


have no great faith in words. ‘Cynthia’ uses 
them. But plain James Bond has learnt their 
danger. After all, when an action speaks for 
itself, why use words? They will probably 
be the wrong words.” 

“I do not think that I want to talk, Uncle 
Bond,” the King said slowly. 

It seemed to him, now, that he had already 
said enough, perhaps too much, when he had 
entered the room. 

“I am content,” Uncle Bond said. “I am 
not afraid of silence.” 

Silence, at the moment, was welcome to 
the King— 

It was a soothing, sedative silence, which 
brought with it the first hush of night. 

The King settled himself, more comfort¬ 
ably, at full length, on the sofa. 

Uncle Bond neither moved, nor spoke. 

Some time passed. 

At last, Uncle Bond stood up, and crossed 
quietly to the sofa. 

The King was asleep. 

The little man drew out two or three blan¬ 
kets, from under the sofa, and threw them 
over the King. 

Then he returned to the writing table, and 
sat down. But he did not relight his candles, 
•C238> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


and resume his work. He leant back in his 
chair, in an attitude of expectancy, as if he 
were waiting for somebody. 

He had not long to wait. 

In a minute or two, the door behind him 
was opened, quietly, and Judith slipped into 
the room. 

Judith halted behind the little man, and 
stood there, for some time in silence, gazing 
at the King’s face, which was dimly visible 
in the light from the windows. 

At last, she spoke. 

“He is asleep?” she whispered. 

“Yes,” Uncle Bond said. “When you re¬ 
member the strain under which he has been 
running, you can hardly be surprised.” 

There was a short silence. Then Judith 
laid her hand on the little man’s shoulder. 

“It was—my fault, Uncle Bond,” she whis¬ 
pered. “I—failed him. It has happened 
twice now. Last night was the first time. 
And tonight—he knew that it was going to 
happen again. I don’t know—how it hap¬ 
pened. It ought not to have happened—” 

“It had to happen. It is a good thing that 
it has happened,” Uncle Bond said quietly. 
“It was—the necessary climax. I have been 
expecting it. And now—it is over— 

-C239> 


THE KING WHO 

“It was a risk. It was a great risk. It 
was the risk,” the little man went on, in a low, 
meditative tone. “But I trusted— him. It 
seemed to me that he could not fail. He 
comes of a good stock. The long line of men 
and women who lived, so that he might live, 
did not live in vain. Think of their restraint, 
their self-repression, their self-sacrifice— 

“And we have been able to do him a serv¬ 
ice, a great service, a greater service than he 
realizes as yet. We have helped him through 
a difficult, and dangerous, period in his life. 
And you have shown him—of what stuff he is 
made. Instincts, and impulses, which, in him, 
have necessarily been insulated, and sternly 
suppressed, for years, have been brought into 
play. He knows now—of what stuff he is 
made. 

“The future will be easier. I was telling 
him, tonight, that I do not think that we 
shall see so much of him, in the future. The 
time is coming when we shall see very little 
of him, I think. But he will not forget us. 
He will think of us with gratitude, with deep¬ 
ening gratitude, as the years go by. We shall 
have a place of our own in his memory. And 
there will be nothing in his memory, that he, 
or we, need regret— 

*C240> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


“We shall miss him. He has come to fill 
a large place in all our lives. It has been a 
strange episode. That he should have wan¬ 
dered, by chance, into our quiet backwater; 
that we should have become implicated, 
through him, in great issues—that is strange. 
But it is only an episode. And it is nearly 
over now. And we—and you—would not 
have it otherwise?” 

“I would not have it otherwise,” Judith 
whispered. 

Then she drew in her breath, sharply, as 
if in pain. 

“But I have so much, and he has so little,” 
she said. 

“He has—England,” Uncle Bond said 
gravely. 

“And I have the Imps, and you,” Judith 
replied. 

Then she stooped down, suddenly, and 
kissed the little man. 

“Good night,” she said. “I am going 
straight to bed. I am very tired.” 

And she turned, and hurried out of the 
room— 

For some time, Uncle Bond remained mo¬ 
tionless at the writing table. 

The night was very still. An owl called, 
-C241> 


THE KING WHO 

eerily, from the garden. A dog barked in 
some distant farmyard. 

At last, the little man rose to his feet, 
crossed to the sofa again, and stood looking 
down at the King’s face which showed pallid, 
drawn, and, somehow, it seemed to him now, 
old, in the dim, half light. 

“The band, I think, must be playing— 
somewhere—” he muttered. 


-C242> 


CHAPTER XVI 


T was a night of strange dreams 
with the King. 

For endless ages, as it seemed 
to him, watched all the time 
| by a thousand flushed, curious 
faces, by a thousand eyes, he fled, down in¬ 
terminable corridors, across dark and deso¬ 
late waste places, pursued, now by the old 
Duke of Northborough, now by Uncle Bond, 
and now by Judith. His feet were of lead. 
Time and again, he stumbled, and all but fell. 
His breath came in panting gusts. He reeled. 
His brain was on fire. And yet the chase 
continued, across continents, through dark, 
dank caves, along a dreary coast line, on 
the edge of precipices, by the side of angry 
seas— 

The horror of it all was heightened by his 
knowledge that he was being pursued in error. 
Some inexplicable, mysterious misunderstand¬ 
ing between him, and his pursuers, accounted 
for the chase. They were pursuing him, hunt¬ 
ing him down, mistakenly, full of a desire to 
serve him, to save him. He could not, he 
< 243 > 










THE KING WHO 

dare not, stop to explain their error to them. 
To stop was death. And Judith was the most 
persistent, the most relentless of his pur¬ 
suers— 

At last the darkness, through which he fled, 
was pierced by a blinding light, which played 
full upon his face, dazzling his eyes. They 
had turned a searchlight upon him, to aid 
them in hunting him down. All the world 
would see his fall. He twisted, this way and 
that, to avoid the light. But his frenzied 
efforts were all in vain. The light turned 
with him always, shining full upon his face. 
Then he fell— 

Bright morning sunshine was streaming in 
through the open windows of the writing 
room, full upon the King’s face, as he awoke. 
As he turned his head to avoid its blinding 
glare, he saw Uncle Bond’s writing table, bare 
and empty, save for the candlesticks, in which 
mere stumps of candles remained. Slowly he 
became conscious of his surroundings. First 
he recognized the writing table, than the bare 
walls, then the room. Then he realized that 
he was lying on the sofa, under the windows. 
The blankets which covered him puzzled him 
for awhile. The fact that he was fully dressed 
in evening clothes puzzled him still more. 

*C244> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


Then memory was achieved, and he knew— 
who he was, where he was. Throwing off the 
blankets he sprang up on to his feet, and 
stretched himself with a sudden access of im¬ 
mense relief. 

It was good to awake from so terrifying a 
dream— 

A burst of radiant, childish laughter, out¬ 
side the room, down below in the garden, drew 
him to the windows. 

Old Jevons, the gardener, was on the lawn, 
with Joshua, the equally elderly garden don¬ 
key, harnessed to the lawn mower. Bill was 
perched on Joshua’s unwilling back. Button 
was pulling at Joshua’s obstinate mouth. And 
Joshua would not move. Joshua was a ca¬ 
pricious animal, with a temper of his own. 
To the laughing Imps, his recurring mutinies 
were a never failing joy. 

In the bright morning light, against the green 
background of the garden trees, the animated 
little scene had a charm which was not lost 
upon the King. 

“If I had a donkey, what wouldn’t go,” 
Bill chanted. 

“Wouldn’t I wollop him? No! No! 
No!” Button carolled gleefully, abandoning 
Joshua’s mouth, and converting the nursery 
< 245 > 


THE KING WHO 

rhyme into an action song of considerable 
vigour. 

Suddenly, Joshua succumbed. Lowering his 
head before the storm, he moved forward. 

Old Jevons, who had been waiting patiently 
for this capitulation, guided the machine. 

“It’s a hard world for donkeys!” the King 
moralized at the window. “But, once har¬ 
nessed, I suppose—one has to pull the ma¬ 
chine.” 

It was of himself that he was thinking! 

Then Judith appeared in the garden, step¬ 
ping down from the verandah, and saunter¬ 
ing across the lawn. 

The King withdrew hastily, from the win¬ 
dows. 

He hardly knew why. 

But he did know! His clothes, his di¬ 
shevelled appearance, made him feel foolish. 
The sooner he could get a bath, and a change, 
the better. It must be late. It must be 
nearly breakfast time. Now, while Judith 
and the Imps were out in the garden, he would 
probably be able to slip down to his bedroom, 
unobserved. The servants would be busy 
preparing breakfast. It must be eight o’clock 
at least. He must hurry— 

Darting out of the writing room, he passed 
-C246)}- 


WENT ON STRIKE 

quickly down the staircase, and through the 
hall, without meeting anybody on the way. 
As he raced along the corridor which led to 
his bedroom, he noticed, with considerable 
satisfaction, that the bathroom was empty. 
Diving into his bedroom, he snatched up some 
towels, and his dressing case. Then he hur¬ 
ried back to the bathroom. It was with a 
feeling not far removed from triumph that 
he shut the bathroom door. 

The cold water of the bath was stimulat¬ 
ing, invigorating. A shave restored his self- 
respect. The • last vestiges of his troubled 
sleep fell from him. He was rested, although 
his sleep had been troubled. He had needed 
rest. This morning, he was himself again. 
He was ready to face—whatever had to be 
faced. But not a moment sooner than was 
necessary. For the time being, he put thought 
from him, deliberately— 

Back in his bedroom, he found that the 
grey lounge suit, which he had been wearing 
the day before, had been carefully brushed, 
and laid out ready for him. The invisible 
valet had been at work again. He dressed 
quickly. While he was knotting his tie, a 
point in his toilet that he was particular 
about, even this morning, from mere force of 
-C247> 


THE KING WHO 


habit, the gong in the hall sounded. He 
looked at his watch. He had not been far 
out in his estimate of the time. It was just 
on half past eight. Did they know he was 
up? Of course they would know. No doubt, 
even here in his bedroom, he was being care¬ 
fully, if unostenatiously, shadowed— 

A sound of footsteps outside on the veran¬ 
dah told him that it was there, as usual, that 
breakfast was being served. 

Well, he had to face them! 

And Uncle Bond, if he was there, if he was 
equal to breakfasting in public for once, might 
have news— 

The King stepped out of the bedroom, 
through the open window doors, on to the 
verandah. 

The breakfast table had been placed at the 
far end of the verandah. 

Uncle Bond was there. 

Judith was there. 

The Imps were there. 

And so was—the Duke. 

A momentary silence followed the King’s 
appearance on the verandah. 

Then the Imps ran forward to greet him. 

“We are all to have breakfast together, 
Uncle Alfred,” Button announced. 

-C248> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


“And we’ve been waiting for you—for ever 
so long,” Bill complained. 

The King caught them up, in turn, and 
shook them, in mid-air, as was his wont. 

“We all like your friend very much,” Bill 
whispered. He’s been here a long, long time 
—quite twenty minutes!” 

“He came in a big car, bigger than Uncle’s,” 
Button supplemented. 

The King looked at his “friend”—the Duke. 

With his broad shoulders, and great height, 
the Duke dominated the little group, at the 
breakfast table, as he dominated every group, 
wherever he stood. He was still wearing the 
rather shabby black office suit which he had 
been wearing the day before. Whatever his 
experience had been, within the last twenty- 
four hours, it had not changed him. The 
formidable, massive features, under their 
crown of silver hair, the luminous, piercing, 
blue eyes, showed no sign of weariness, no hint 
even of anxiety. The force, the vigour, the 
look, of the wonderful old man were all unim¬ 
paired. He was still, as he had always been, 
the strong man, sure of himself, and of his 
purpose. 

A sudden, irresistible thrill of relief ran 
through the King. 

<C249> 


THE KING WHO 

From that moment, he knew, for certain, 
that the Duke had brought good news; that 
the Duke had “cut the rope”— 

The lightning conductor had not failed. 

This man could not fail. 

There was an awkward little silence, as the 
King approached the breakfast table. 

It was not that the Duke was at a loss. The 
Duke could never be at a loss. The King 
recognized that. Nor was it that Uncle Bond 
was embarrassed. The King was conscious 
that the little man was watching him with 
shining, mischievous eyes. Rather it was 
that the Duke, and Uncle Bond, deferred to 
him, in this silence, tacitly recognizing that it 
was for him to indicate how he wished to be 
met, whether as their friend, or as—the King. 

Oddly enough, it was Judith who settled the 
question. 

Slipping into her place behind the coffee pot 
she turned to the King with her usual friendly 
little nod, and smile. 

“You have had a good night? You slept?” 
she said. “The Imps were very anxious to 
wake you as usual. But I thought you would 
like to sleep on this morning. No, Bill. This 
is Uncle Alfred’s coffee. That is right, Button. 
That is Uncle Alfred’s chair.” 

•C250> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


It was Uncle Alfred, accordingly, who sat 
down in his usual place at the breakfast 
table, with his back to the house, facing the 
garden. 

His friend, the Duke, sat down opposite to 
him. 

The Imps scrambled up on to their chairs, 
on Judith’s right and left. 

Uncle Bond presided at the head of the table. 

The meal began. 

It was a strange meal, the strangest of the 
many strange meals which the King had 
known. The two parts which he had kept dis¬ 
tinct for so long seemed now, somehow, sud¬ 
denly to blend, to mingle, without any diffi¬ 
culty. He was Alfred, the sailor, again. And 
yet, he was—the King— 

With the Imps at the table, there was no 
lack of conversation. 

Once they had finished their porridge, the 
Imps were free to talk. They talked. To 
each other. To themselves. To anybody. 
To nobody in particular. 

A lengthy dialogue between Bill, and a 
wholly invisible small boy called John, who 
had, apparently, a regrettable habit of grab¬ 
bing his food, seemed to appeal, in particular, 
to the Duke, who entered into the play, with 
-C251> 


THE KING WHO 


an imaginative readiness which the King had 
somehow never suspected. 

The birds called cheerily from the garden. 
The whir of the haycutting machines was 
audible once again; but they were not so near 
the house, as on the previous day. Clearly 
the harvest was being gathered in the more dis¬ 
tant fields. The sunshine lay pure gold every¬ 
where— 

The King found himself noticing these 
things, and registering them in his mind, as if 
this was to be the last time that he was to 
sit there, in Paradise, enjoying them. 

The last time? 

It might be— 

At last the meal ended. 

First of all, Judith rose to her feet, and 
drove the Imps, armed with lumps of sugar, 
before her, along the verandah, to say good 
morning to Diana’s foal in the paddock. 

Then, a minute or two later, Uncle Bond 
slipped away, unostentatiously, into the house. 

The King, and his friend, the Duke, were 
thus left alone, at the table, facing each other. 

A sudden, odd desire to postpone what was 
coming, whatever was coming, beset the King. 
Producing his tobacco pouch and pipe, he filled 
his pipe leisurely. 

?C252^ 


WENT ON STRIKE 


The Duke betrayed no sign of impatience. 
A certain large patience, it occurred to the 
King, was, perhaps, the Duke’s most pro¬ 
nounced characteristic. 

The King lit his pipe. 

Then he looked at the Duke. 

The Duke smiled. 

“Your little holiday is over. Your short 
leave of absence is at an end, sir,” he said. 
“I told you, you may remember, sir, that it 
would only be a short leave of absence.” 

“You have come—for me?” the King asked. 

“Yes.” 

“I am ready to go with you—back to duty,” 
the King said slowly. “There is nothing, I 
think, to keep me here.” 

Then he stood up, abruptly. 

“But we can’t talk here,” he exclaimed. 
“Shall we walk?” 

The Duke stood up in turn. 

Together, they stepped down from the 
verandah. 

The King led the way on to the lawn. 

At the moment, his desire for movement was 
paramount. 

They crossed to the far end of the lawn, and 
turned, in silence. Then the King took the 
Duke’s arm. 


< 25 3 > 


THE KING WHO 

“I am ready to hear what you have to say ,’ 5 
he said. 

The Duke shortened his long stride, and 
fell into step with the King. 

“I am here to ask you to return to the 
palace, sir,” he said. “The crisis is over. 
The strike has failed. The success of the pro¬ 
tective measures which we judged necessary 
has been overwhelming. Within an hour of 
the declaration of Martial Law and the opera¬ 
tion of the ‘Gamma’ scheme, all the revolu¬ 
tionary leaders of the strike conspiracy were 
in custody. They are now at sea, on board the 
Iron Duke. I could not resist that little 
pleasantry. The Iron Duke sailed under 
sealed orders—for Bermuda, sir. The strike 
leaders will be interned there. 

“The police have carried out their orders 
throughout with a skill, and a discretion, 
worthy of the highest praise. The military 
have been welcomed, with open arms every¬ 
where. So far as we are aware, up to the 
present, law and order have been maintained 
with hardly a casualty. It has, in fact, been 
not so much a battle of the police and of the 
military, as of propaganda, sir. Our control 
of communications has been the foundation of 
-£250 


WENT ON STRIKE 


our success. From the first, by a series of 
official bulletins, we have been able to put the 
facts of the situation before the whole nation, 
with a minimum of delay. 

“There can no longer be any doubt, sir, that 
we were correct in our assumption that the 
great majority of trades unionists, up and 
down the country, had been deceived into the 
belief that the strike had been called for purely 
industrial reasons. Once we had succeeded in 
convincing them, by our bulletins, that they 
had been betrayed into the hands of a little 
group of foreign, revolutionary extremists, the 
strike was doomed. The anger of the deceived 
trades unionists has, ironically enough, been 
one of our few embarrassments. In many 
parts of the country, the military have had to 
protect the local trades union leaders, many of 
whom appear to have been as grossly deceived 
as anybody else, from the loyal fury of their 
followers. 

“Mark that word loyal, sir! A great out¬ 
burst of loyalty to you personally, sir, has been 
the outcome of the crisis. That you should 
have been subjected to such a crisis, before 
you had been given any opportunity to show 
your worth, has outraged the whole nation’s 
-C25S> 


THE KING WHO 


sense of fair play. From all sections of the 
community, both here at home, and in the Do¬ 
minions, messages of the most fervent loyalty 
have been pouring into Downing Street, during 
the last twenty-four hours. At the moment, 
you are the most popular man in the Empire, 
sir. The fact that, as soon as I had assured 
you that law and order would be maintained, 
you left the palace, and withdrew at once into 
the country, rather than take any part in the 
conflict, has greatly strengthened your hold on 
the people, sir. You left the palace, and with¬ 
drew to an unknown address, in the country, 
yesterday, sir, until the will of the people 
should be made known. You will return to 
the palace, today, sir, on the crest of a wave 
of enthusiasm, unparalleled, I think, in our 
history.” 

“You want me to return to the palace, with 
you, at once?” the King asked. 

“I have no wish to hurry you, sir,” the Duke 
replied. “But the sooner you return to the 
palace, and the Royal Standard is run up 
again on the palace flagstaff, the sooner will 
the existing state of a national emergency be 
at an end.” 

“I will come with you at once,” the King 
-C256> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


said. “But first of all—I must take leave of 
my friends.” 

His eyes were fixed, as he spoke, on Judith, 
who had just reappeared, alone, on the 
verandah. 

The Duke followed the King’s glance. Then 
he fell back, two or three paces, and bowed 
with the hint of formality by which he was in 
the habit of suggesting, so subtly, and yet so 
unmistakably, that he was dealing with—the 
King. 

The King moved straight across the lawn to 
Judith. 

Judith stepped down from the verandah, and 
came slowly forward towards him. 

They met on the edge of the lawn. 

“I am going back to town, at once, with the 
Duke,” the King announced. “The Duke 
has come to fetch me. The crisis is over. 
The strike has failed. But you know that, of 
course—” 

He paused there, for a moment, suddenly 
conscious of the utter ineptitude of what he 
was saying— 

And then words came to him, fitting words, 
words to which, up to then, he had given no 
thought, but in which all his feelings for, all 
-C257> 


THE KING WHO 

his thoughts about, Judith, so long suppressed, 
seemed, suddenly, to crystallize, and find in- 
evitable expression— 

“If thanks were necessary between us, I 
would thank you for all that you have done for 
me,” he said. “But thanks are not necessary 
between us, are they? Where there is—friend¬ 
ship—there is no need for thanks. You said, 
yesterday, that you knew that there could be 
no change in our friendship, and that you were 
content that it should be so. You were right, 
of course. You are always right. You said 
what you did to reassure me, to relieve my 
anxiety, to remove the uncertainty about—our 
position—which was troubling me, although I 
was hardly aware that that was my trouble. 
What you said did reassure me. It did re¬ 
lieve my anxiety. But now, I want to say 
something, as plainly as I can, to you. It 
seems to me that what I have to say is—due to 
you— 

“If I were merely Alfred, the sailor, of our 
friendship, I should stay here, now, with you. 
I should stay with you always. I should ask 
you to join your life to mine. I should ask 
you to make—Paradise—for me, wherever we 
were. If I were merely Alfred, the sailor, you 
would say—yes—gladly— 

-C258> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


“But I am not merely Alfred, the sailor. I 
am—the King. Alfred, the sailor is—dead. 
Is it his epitaph that I am speaking now? I— 
the King—am going—back to duty. I am 
going back to try to take hold of my job—in a 
new way. I am going back, to try to think— 
first of England, and never of myself. I am 
trying to do that now— 

“But, before I go, I want to make you a 
promise. I want to—pledge myself—to you, 
as far as I can. It will give me—a certain satis¬ 
faction—to bind myself to you, as far as I can. 
“I will never marry—” 

Judith stood, motionless, beside him, while 
he spoke. Her beautiful vivid face was pale 
for once, and her dark eyes were troubled, as 
if with painful thought. But she met his 
glance without flinching, and her voice, when 
she spoke, was firm, if low. 

“I think, I hope, you will marry, Alfred / 7 
she said. “But I am glad, and proud, that 
you have said what you have. It was—like 
you, to say it. It is—an acknowledgment— 
that I shall never forget, as long as I live— 

“I will give you—a pledge—in return. 
Whatever happens, you will always be welcome 
here. Whatever happens, you will always find 
the same welcome here. You will never find— 
< 259 > 


THE KING WHO 

any changes here. I don’t think Alfred, the 
sailor, is dead. I don’t think he will ever die 
—as long as you live! For us, here, at any 
rate, you will always be—our friend Alfred!” 

Once again, the King was conscious that 
Judith understood him better than he under¬ 
stood himself. Once again—was it for the 
last time?—it seemed to him that she had ex¬ 
plained him to himself. What did all his talk 
amount to? An acknowledgment of the right, 
of the claim, that Judith had established upon 
him—that was all. 

That was all—he could offer to her. That 
was all—she could accept— 

As unaccountably, and as suddenly then as 
they had come to him, before, words failed 
him. 

Abruptly, he turned from Judith, and 
hurried away from her, round the side of the 
house— 

On the verandah, beside the front door, the 
Duke and Uncle Bond were standing together 
deep in talk. Uncle Bond was holding the 
King’s coat, and cap. 

As the King approached, the Duke shook 
hands very cordially with Uncle Bond, and 
then stepped down from the verandah, and 
crossed to a large closed motor car, which was 
-C 260 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


drawn up in the drive near by, with the uni¬ 
formed chauffeur standing stiffly to attention 
at its open door. 

For a moment, the King thought of passing 
Uncle Bond without speaking. But that, of 
course, was impossible. And yet—what could 
he say? 

He need not have troubled himself. 

Uncle Bond might distrust, but he never had 
any difficulty in finding words. 

The little man handed the King his coat, and 
his cap. 

Then he spoke. 

“This,” he said, with a sweeping gesture 
which seemed to include the sunlit garden, the 
wooded landscape beyond, the house, and even 
Judith and himself, “has all been a dream, my 
boy. But it is now high time that you should 
awake out of sleep. Your real life is begin¬ 
ning now.” 

The King wrung the little man’s hand in 
silence, and then followed the Duke to the 
waiting car. 

The Duke was already seated inside the car. 

The King got into the car, and sat down be¬ 
side him. 

The uniformed chauffeur, whose keen, clean¬ 
shaven face was motionless, impassive, a mask, 
-C2613- 


THE KING WHO 

shut the door, and hurried round to the front 
of the car, and started the engine. 

A moment later, the car leapt forward and 
swept down the drive out into, and up, the 
narrow, tree-shadowed lane beyond. 


*C 262 >' 


CHAPTER XVII 


T the top of the lane, a little 
group of Army officers in 
khaki service dress, who were 
standing on a strip of grass be¬ 
side the hedge on the right, 
sprang smartly to attention, and saluted, as the 
car swept past them. 

Mechanically, the King raised his hand to 
his cap. 

A moment later, as the car rushed out on to 
the Great North Road, he realized, with a 
start, that this salute, and his acknowledgment 
of it, marked, definitely, his return to duty. 

Alfred, the sailor, was indeed dead. 

It was—the King—who had raised his hand 
to his cap. 

Instinctively, he had resumed his place in 
the procession. 

It had been just as Judith had said. The 
shadow thrown by his Royal rank had been 
waiting for him there in the lane, behind him— 

“That was battalion headquarters, the Cold- 
streams, Colonel Varney Wilson in command,” 
the Duke explained. “It is they who have 
-C263> 










THE KING WHO 


been responsible for your safety, during the 
last twenty-four hours, sir.” 

The King nodded; but made no other reply. 

The Duke shot one of his shrewd, penetrat¬ 
ing glances at the King. Then the old states¬ 
man leant far back in his corner in the lux¬ 
uriously upholstered car. He did not speak 
again. 

The King was grateful to the Duke for his 
silence, and for the ready understanding of his 
mood which that silence implied. 

“When an action speaks for itself, why use 
words? They will probably be the wrong 
words.” 

That was Uncle Bond! 

He was going back to duty. That was quite 
enough at the moment. He did not want to 
talk about it— 

The car rushed on up the broad, empty, 
sunlit road. 

Although it was still so early in the day, the 
cattle were already lying under the green shade 
of the trees, in the fields. The hedges on 
either side of the road were white with the 
blossoms of the wild rose. Overhead the sky 
was a luminous blue, unflecked by cloud— 

This was Paradise that he was rushing 
< 260 - 


WENT ON STRIKE 


through. This was Paradise that he was 
leaving. Would he ever return? Perhaps he 
would. But never with his old recklessness, 
never with his old lightness of heart. So much 
had happened. He had been through so much. 
He had changed. There was a heaviness of 
thought, a deadness of feeling, within him, 
now, which he had never known before. It 
was as if he had lost something, lost some part 
of himself, which he would never be able to 
recover. Was it his youth? 

The car swept on, smoothly, inexorably, 
without a check, at a high speed— 

Was his real life beginning now? Uncle 
Bond again! Had he been living in a dream? 
Had he not often felt that he was living in a 
dream? a wild, grotesque, nightmare dream? 
But that had always been at the palace. Here, 
in Paradise, it had seemed to him that he was 
in touch with reality. And now, Paradise 
itself, and all that had happened there, seemed 
a dream. High time to awake out of sleep? 
He would be glad to awake. He would be 
glad to touch the real. But would he ever 
awake? 

The rushing, throbbing car, the motionless 
figure of the Duke at his side, the broad, wind- 
-C265> 


THE KING WHO 


ing road, the sunlit, peaceful, countryside, his 
own thoughts—all these things were the very 
stuff of dreams, fantastic, unbelievable, un¬ 
real. His deadness of feeling, his heaviness 
of thought, were dream. His lost youth was 
dream. This silence? No one ever spoke in 
dreams— 

At last the throbbing car slowed down sud¬ 
denly; then stopped. 

The Duke was up, and out of the car, in a 
moment. 

The King followed the old statesman out on 
to the road more leisurely. 

An odd, unexpected turn, this, in the dream, 
but dream, assuredly still dream— 

It was a vivid little dream scene which 
followed. 

The car had pulled up at the Paradise- 
Hades signpost of all places. That could only 
have happened in dream— 

A little group of saluting soldiers, and bare¬ 
headed civilian officials, stood under the fa¬ 
miliar signpost. 

Half a dozen cars were parked in the side 
road, behind them. 

In the centre of the main road stood an 
open state carriage, with a team of six grey 
horses, in the charge of postillions and out- 
.-C 266 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


riders, who were wearing the scarlet coats, and 
white breeches of the Royal livery. 

A bodyguard of Household Cavalry, whose 
swords, breastplates and plumed helmets glit¬ 
tered in the sun, were drawn up near by. 

The King turned to the Duke. 

The veteran Prime Minister smiled. 

“This is where you begin your triumphant 
return to your capital, sir,” he said. “A great 
welcome awaits you, between here and the 
palace. The Cabinet were making the neces¬ 
sary arrangements when I left town this morn¬ 
ing. You will permit me to follow you to the 
carriage, sir?” 

People did speak in dreams, then—some¬ 
times— 

Mechanically, the King moved slowly along 
the sunlit road, towards the carriage, followed 
by the Duke at a distance of some half dozen 
paces. 

An extraordinary dream this, amazingly 
vivid and minute in its detail; but dream, cer¬ 
tainly dream. If only he could awake! 
Where would he awake? In the palace? In 
Paradise? He must awake soon— 

The King got into the state carriage, and sat 
down. 

The scarlet coated footman, who had held 
< 267 ^ 


THE KING WHO 


open the carriage door, was about to shut it 
again—when the King missed the Duke from 
his side— 

A terrifying thrill of loneliness, a horror of 
his sudden isolation, ran through the King. 

He turned hastily. 

The Duke was standing, drawn up to his 
full height, with bared head, a magnificent, a 
real, a vital figure, in this sunlit world of 
phantom shadows, some yards away from the 
carriage. 

The King beckoned to him desperately. 

The Duke was at his side in a moment. 

“You must not leave me. You must come 
with me. I cannot face this—nightmare— 
alone,” the King said in an urgent whisper. 
“I shall—lose my reason—if you leave me. I 
am not sure now, at this moment, whether I 
am asleep or awake. Do people talk in 
dreams? You seem real. All the rest, every¬ 
thing else is—the stuff of dreams. You can¬ 
not leave me.” 

The Duke waved the scarlet coated foot¬ 
man to one side, and got into the carriage, and 
sat down beside the King. His mere physical 
presence, his vitality, his energy, at once 
steadied the King. For one terrible moment, 
*C 268 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


it had seemed to him that he was falling 
through infinite space— 

A couple of the cars parked in the side road, 
beyond the signpost, shot forward, and swept 
on ahead up the main road. 

A momentary bustle, a general movement, at 
the cross road, followed. 

A curt word of command rang out, and the 
Household Cavalry wheeled, with the precision 
of clockwork, into position, in front of, and be¬ 
hind, the state carriage. 

The scarlet coated footmen sprang up on 
to their stand, at the back of the carriage. 
The outriders swung clear into their places. 
The postillions whipped up their horses— 

The carriage moved forward. 

As the carriage moved forward, the Duke 
dropped his left hand on to the seat, between 
the King and himself. 

“Take my hand. Grip it, sir!” he said. 
“I am real! Do not hesitate, sir. We are 
quite unobserved. A time comes in most 
men’s lives when they need—the grip of the 
hand of a friend. I am an old man, sir; old 
enough to be your father. When you take my 
hand, it is as if you reached out and gripped 
your father’s hand— 

-C269> 


THE KING WHO 


“I would have spared you all this, I would 
have spared you the ordeal of the wild en¬ 
thusiasm which awaits you, a little further on, 
if it had been possible, sir. But it was not 
possible. I realized the risks involved—all 
the risks, and they are considerable. I 
counted the cost—to you. But the end to be 
attained far outweighs the price to be paid. 
The spectacular, the triumphant, return to the 
palace, which you are just beginning, sir, will 
do more to consolidate your hold on the people 
than anything else could have done. The 
psychology of the mob is, and must always 
remain, an incalculable force; but, with a 
little skill, with a little courage, with a 
little patience, it can be controlled, it can be 
used.” 

The King hardly heard what the Duke said. 
But the grip of the old man’s hand on his was 
as a rock to cling to. This was what he had 
wanted; something tangible, actual, real to 
hold on to, in this dream world of sunlit 
phantoms which enveloped him. He was no 
longer alone. With the Duke like this at his 
side, he could face whatever twists and turns 
their dream might take. It was their dream, 
now— 

The carriage moved slowly forward, but, 


WENT ON STRIKE 


slowly as it moved, it soon entered—the out¬ 
skirts of Hades— 

In the outer suburbs, all the scattered, de¬ 
corous, red-tiled villas were gay with flags, 
gayer than they had been in that other life, 
ages ago, on the Coronation Day. At various 
points on the road now stood little groups of 
people, the vanguard of the thousand, flushed, 
curious faces, the thousand eyes— 

With these people, the cheering began, the 
waving of flags, the wild frenzy. 

The King felt the Duke’s hand tighten on 
his— 

The crowd thickened. The little groups be¬ 
came two continuous lines of people, on either 
side of the road, people closely packed in deep 
ranks, behind cordons of policemen. 

The cheering grew in volume, took on a 
deeper note, became a continuous roar— 

At first, the King smiled, and bowed, me¬ 
chanically, to the left, and to the right, as 
he sat in the carriage. 

Soon he found himself standing up, bare¬ 
headed, in the carriage, so that all the people 
could see him. 

The Duke, who had sunk far back into the 
carriage, supported him from behind against 
his knees. 


< 271 ^ 


THE KING WHO 


Yes. The Duke was there— 

Always the crowd grew, and the cheering in¬ 
creased in volume. 

In the inner suburbs, the flags were thicker 
than ever. Every window was open, and full 
of flushed, excited, smiling faces. Many of 
the roofs of the shops and houses were black 
with people. Down below, in the road, as the 
carriage moved slowly forward, the crowd 
swayed to and fro, in a frenzy of enthusiasm. 
Flowers fell, thick and fast, in a multi¬ 
coloured rain, in front of the carriage. Here 
and there, at conspicuous street corners, men 
in working dress tore, or trampled upon, or 
burnt, the Red Flag of the revolutionary— 

It was a universal outpouring of pent-up 
feeling, a delirium of enthusiasm, without 
parallel— 

The King himself could not remain, for 
long, unaffected. In spite of himself, in spite 
of his determination not to be deceived by the 
chimeras of this fevered, sunlit, daydream, he 
was caught up on, he was thrilled by, the wild 
enthusiasm which surged about him. His 
pulse quickened. He trembled where he 
stood in the carriage— 

And then, suddenly, a strange thing hap¬ 
pened to him. 


< 272 ^ 


WENT ON STRIKE 


It was as if scales fell from his eyes, and he 
could see. It was as if some weight that had 
been pressing'upon his brain was lifted, and he 
could think clearly, sanely. He had been not 
far from the verge of madness. Now he was 
himself again— 

This was no dream. These people at whom 
he was smiling, these people to whom he was 
bowing, mechanically, right and left, were ac¬ 
tual, real. This roar of cheers meant some¬ 
thing. It rang true. It was genuine. It was 
sincere. These cheers, repeated, over and over 
again, never ending, had a new, deep, unmis¬ 
takable personal note, which he had never 
heard before. This was no half-hearted, per¬ 
functory enthusiasm. These people were glad 
to see him. They were cheering—him. And 
they meant it! They were—his people. And 
he was—their King— 

A thrill of triumph, an exultation which 
shook him, from head to foot, as he stood in 
the carriage, ran through the King. 

And then it left him, and, in its place, came a 
sickening chill. 

But these people, his people, did not know 
what had happened, what he had done, how 
lightly he had held them. If they knew the 
true, the inner, history of the last twenty- 
< 273 > 


THE KING WHO 

four hours, would they cheer him like this? 

All his former impatience with, his con¬ 
tempt for, himself, at that moment, returned to 
the King. 

What right had he to be standing there, 
smiling and bowing in acknowledgment of this 
wild, this fervent, enthusiasm? He had done 
nothing to earn it. He had forfeited all right 
to it— 

It was the old statesman behind him, sitting 
far back in the carriage, who ought to be stand¬ 
ing there, in his place—in the place of honour 
—in the forefront of—this procession— 

Swinging round in the carriage, the King 
beckoned, impetuously, to the Duke, to stand 
up beside him. 

For a moment, the veteran Prime Minister 
hesitated. 

Then he stood up beside the King, in the 
carriage, towering head and shoulders above 
him. 

The King took the Duke’s arm. 

The cheering redoubled— 

And so, with the Duke in as prominent a 
place as the King could give him, as prom¬ 
inent a place as his own, the carriage moved 
on, through the dust and the clamour, and the 
wild cheering, into the heart of the town— 
< 274 ^ 


WENT ON STRIKE 


By this time, the heat, the glitter and the 
glare, and the frenzied enthusiasm which 
surged all about him, had begun to tell upon 
the King. The physical strain of it all became 
almost unendurable, deadening the impressions 
which for some few minutes had been so vivid, 
so clear. The thousand, flushed, smiling faces, 
the thousand eyes troubled him no more. The 
crowd became a mere blurred, dark, clamor¬ 
ous mass, swaying to and fro, on either side of 
him. Only the Duke remained distinct, in¬ 
dividual, standing bolt upright beside him in 
the carriage, impassive, immovable, a rock to 
lean upon, physically, and morally, as he 
smiled and bowed, this way and that, with 
unseeing eyes— 

How long the torture of this later stage of 
their journey lasted, the King never knew. It 
had become torture now. All sense of time, 
and distance, and place left him. He had no 
clear idea of the route which the carriage fol¬ 
lowed. His body ached from head to foot. 
The roaring of the crowd was a mere whisper 
to the roaring within his own ears. He leant 
more and more heavily upon the Duke— 

At last, at the end of an eternity of effort, 
an eternity of strained endurance, the carriage 
swung through Trafalgar Square, and so 
< 275 ^ 


THE KING WHO 


passed, under the lavishly decorated Ad¬ 
miralty Arch, into the Mall. 

The white front of the palace, at the far 
end of the Mall, was now in sight. 

This sudden, abrupt glimpse of the palace, 
and the promise of ultimate release and rest 
it afforded, served to arouse the King, and re¬ 
vived his interest, momentarily, in his im¬ 
mediate surroundings. 

In the Mall, the Coronation flags still hung, 
flaunting and gay, in the sunlight. On either 
side of the road, the stands from which the 
guests of the Government had viewed the 
Coronation procession were once again crowded 
with people, whose enthusiasm was as wild, 
and whose cheering was as loud, as the carriage 
moved slowly past them, as that at any other 
point along the whole route. 

One detail in the riot of colour, and the 
tumult, about him, caught the King’s atten¬ 
tion. 

The road was no longer lined by the police, 
and the military. In their place stood men in 
every variety of civilian dress, alike alone in 
this, that every one of them was wearing war 
medals proudly displayed, in the majority of 
cases on very threadbare coats. 

The King turned abruptly to the Duke. 
-C276> 


WENT ON STRIKE 

“Who are these men with medals ?” he 
asked. 

“The Legion of Veterans, sir,” the Duke re¬ 
plied. “Their old Commander-in-Chief raised 
his hand, and thousands of them fell in, at 
once, all over the country. They reinforced 
the police and the military. There was no 
need for us to enrol special constables. The 
Field Marshal asked that they might be given 
some post of honour today in recognition of 
their services. It was decided that they should 
line the Mall here, and provide an auxiliary 
guard at the palace.” 

And so, guarded now by men whose loyalty 
had been tried and tested on a dozen battle¬ 
fields, the carriage passed up the Mall, and 
swung, at last, through the great central, 
wrought iron gates, into the quadrangle, in 
front of the palace— 

The Duke was down, and out of the car¬ 
riage, in a moment. 

The King stepped out of the carriage, after 
him. 

The Duke fell back, half a dozen paces be¬ 
hind the King, and a little to one side— 

A massed band of the Guards, drawn up in 
the centre of the quadrangle began to play the 
National Anthem. 




THE KING WHO 


High up, on the flagstaff above the palace 
roof, the Royal Standard rose, and, caught by 
the wind, shook out, at once, every inch of its 
silken folds. 

Above the flagstaff a score, or more, of 
decorated aeroplanes swerved, and dived, firing 
red, white, and blue rockets, a signal seen all 
over London. 

The bells of Westminster rang out joyously, 
followed by the bells of all the city churches. 

From the Green Park, on the right, came 
the sudden thunder of the guns of a Royal 
salute. 

But louder than the guns, drowning their 
thunder, the joyous music of the bells, and the 
music of the band, rose the cheers of the peo¬ 
ple, near and far, a deep, rhythmical, con¬ 
tinuous roar— 

For a moment or two, the King remained 
motionless, rigid, in acknowledgment of the 
salute. 

Then he turned sharply to his right, and 
moved across the quadrangle, followed by the 
Duke at a distance of some paces, to the main 
entrance door of the palace. 

On either side of the palace steps, within 
the doorway, and in the hall beyond, were 
ranged Cabinet Ministers, military and naval 
-C278> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


representatives, and high officials of the Court, 
and the household staff. 

The King passed them by only vaguely con¬ 
scious of their presence, and made straight for 
the great central, main staircase in the palace. 

He knew, now, by instinct, rather than by 
conscious thought, what he had to do. 

His concern was with the immense crowd 
round the palace, whose wild cheering he 
could still hear, even here as he ascended the 
staircase. 

He must show himself to the people— 

At the head of the staircase, followed more 
closely now by the Duke, the King turned into 
the little withdrawing room, from which the 
huge windows, above the main entrance of the 
palace, opened. 

The windows had been flung wide open. 

The King crossed the room, and stepped 
through the windows out on to the stone bal¬ 
cony, above the main entrance. 

A great roar of cheers, a wild waving of 
flags and hands, from which he all but recoiled, 
greeted his appearance. 

The Duke halted, behind him, out of sight, 
just inside the windows— 

For the next twenty or thirty minutes, save 
for brief rests in a chair, placed in readiness 
-C279> 


THE KING WHO 


for him in the little withdrawing room behind 
him, the King was out on the balcony, bare¬ 
headed, in the blazing noon sunshine, smiling 
and bowing in acknowledgment of the wild en¬ 
thusiasm of the crowd. 

The people were insatiable. 

Over and over again, when he sought to pro¬ 
long his all too short rests in the little room 
behind him, he was compelled to return to the 
balcony, in response to the insistent, the tu¬ 
multuous demands of the crowd. 

Once or twice, he made the Duke appear on 
the balcony, at his side. But the people 
clearly preferred his solitary appearances— 

The little room behind him gradually filled. 
A number of the more important Court of¬ 
ficials, and certain privileged members of the 
household staff, gathered there, and stood in 
little groups, well back from the windows. 

Once, as he threw himself into his chair, a 
tall, distinguished looking, grey-haired man, 
whom he recognized dully as his physician, 
detached himself from one of these little 
groups, approached him, held his pulse for a 
moment, and then, without speaking, handed 
him a glassful of some colourless stimulant 
which he drank, although it made no impres¬ 
sion whatever on his palate. 

-C2803- 


WENT ON STRIKE 


Later, back in the glaring sunlight on the 
balcony once again, he was conscious of the 
help of the physician’s draught. His senses 
were quickened. He felt less fatigued. But he 
knew, as the roar of the seething crowd round 
the palace came up to him once more, that 
this would have to be one of the last of his 
appearances. For a little longer, he could 
hold out, using the factitious energy with which 
the stimulant had temporarily endowed him. 
Then must come collapse— 

At that moment, there was a sudden move¬ 
ment down below in the quadrangle. 

A man, who seemed to dart out from 
amongst a little knot of men in civilian dress, 
on the left, just inside the quadrangle railings, 
a man on whose breast war medals glittered in 
the sun, dashed across the quadrangle, towards 
the main entrance of the palace. 

The King watched him idly, curiously— 

Suddenly, the man’s right arm swung up, 
once, twice— 

Then the King felt himself caught up, 
violently, from behind. 

Flung, bodily, back from the balcony, 
through the huge open windows, he fell, 
heavily, on the floor of the little room within. 

The windows were blocked now by a fa- 

<2Siy 


THE KING WHO 


miliar tall figure, by a pair of familiar, broad 
shoulders— 

A moment later there were two, short, sharp 
explosions. Bombs. Then a great clatter 
of falling glass— 

The King was up on his feet, in a moment. 

A great cry of horror went up from the im¬ 
mense crowd round the palace. 

The King took a step forward. 

Immediately half a dozen strong hands were 
laid upon him to hold him back. 

There, on the balcony, immediately in front 
of him, in the litter of broken glass from the 
huge windows, lay the Duke, motionless, at 
full length, bleeding from a dozen jagged 
wounds. 

A madness, a fury, which culminated in a 
passionate resentment of the hands that were 
holding him back, took possession of the King. 

Hardly knowing what he did, he struck out, 
right and left, savagely, viciously, with all his 
force. 

In a moment he was free— 

He stepped out on to the balcony. 

Led by the tall, grey-haired physician, four 
or five of the Court officials followed him, hard 
on his heels, picked up the Duke, and carried 
-C 282 )}- 


WENT ON STRIKE 

him back into the safety of the little room 
within— 

Down below in the quadrangle, another 
limp, huddled figure was being borne, hur¬ 
riedly, and unceremoniously by red-coated 
soldiers, whose fixed bayonets caught the sun, 
in the direction of the guardroom, on the 
right. There was no life in that figure— 

Beyond the palace railings, the maddened, 
infuriated crowd swayed to and fro in great 
billows of pent-up fury, an ocean of clamor¬ 
ous, tumultuous passion, striving to break its 
bounds, to the accompaniment of animal cries 
of anger, and the confused shouting of a thou¬ 
sand voices. 

The King took it all in at a glance. A sud¬ 
den, strange calm, a sure, quiet confidence 
were with him now. 

The anger of the crowd was hideous, men¬ 
acing. The line of the military, and the po¬ 
lice, between the crowd and the palace tossed 
up and down, like a line of corks on a wild, 
tempestuous sea. At any moment, that line 
might break, and the infuriated mob would 
be let loose, with its madness, its lust for 
blood, its wild shouting for lynch law. 

Anything might happen, at any moment, 

-C283> 


THE KING WHO 


unless something was done, and done quickly. 
And he was the man who must take action— 
Without haste, surely, and skilfully, the 
King climbed on to the stone parapet of the 
balcony. 

Then he drew himself up to his full height, 
and held up his hand— 

He had no fear. He knew no doubt. He 
had no anxiety. 

He knew what he had to do. 

This was his moment. 

He had found himself. 

Never again, it seemed to him, at the mo¬ 
ment, would he know doubt, anxiety or fear— 
For some time, the wild frenzy of the crowd, 
down below, beyond the palace railings con¬ 
tinued unabated. Then some of the people 
caught sight of the bareheaded, slim, incred¬ 
ibly boyish figure, in the inconspicuous grey 
lounge suit, standing on his precarious, wind¬ 
swept perch, on the parapet of the balcony. 
Then others saw him. Slowly, the surge of 
the crowd slackened. Slowly, the pandemo¬ 
nium died down. At last, the tumult and the 
uproar gave place to a universal, joyous cry— 
“The King! The King!” 

Then a great silence fell. 

The King dropped his hand to his side, and 
-C284> 


WENT ON STRIKE 


spoke. His voice rang out loud and clear, 
the voice of a sailor, trained to pitch his voice, 
instinctively, to carry as far as possible in the 
open air. 

“My people”—the words rose simply and 
naturally to his lips, thrilling him as he used 
them—“this was to have been a day of great 
national rejoicing. It has been turned, in a 
moment, into a day of great national mourn¬ 
ing. I am unhurt, untouched. But a greater 
man than I, the Duke of Northborough, lies 
dying in the room behind me. He gave his 
life for mine.” His voice shook a little. 
“From this moment, I hold my life, a sacred 
trust, at his hands. 

“I will say nothing, now, of the madman, 
whose madness has been used as the instru¬ 
ment to strike down an old man, whose long 
and noble life has been devoted wholly to 
the best interests of our country. Death has 
already closed that madman’s account. Nor 
will I speak, now, of the men, whose wild and 
reckless talk makes such madness possible. 
Such men turn, naturally, to assassination and 
murder, in defeat. 

“I ask you, now, not to disturb the last mo¬ 
ments of the great man, who has just crowned 
his long and noble life with the 'greater love/ 
^ 2853 - 


THE KING WHO 


before which we all bare and bow our heads, 
by any retaliation, by any outburst, by any 
demonstration, of the wilder passions against 
which he always set his face like flint. I ask 
you, now, to disperse, as quietly, and as 
quickly, as you can, and return to your own 
homes, the homes which the great man we 
mourn, within the last twenty-four hours, has 
guarded from the anarchy of revolution, and 
maintained in peace. 

“I know I shall not ask in vain. ,, 

A low murmur rose from the crowd, while 
the King spoke. The people, on the edge of 
the crowd nearest to the palace, repeated 
what he said, to those behind them. They 
repeated it again. And so, in this almost 
miraculous way, something of what he said 
reached to the furthest limits of the immense 
crowd, and even spread beyond, through the 
thronged streets of the city. 

There was a tense, breathless pause, when 
the King had finished speaking— 

Then the bandmaster, down below in the 
palace quadrangle, had an inspiration. 

He raised his baton. 

A moment later the massed band of the 
Guards began to play “God Save the King.” 

For a time, the huge crowd still hesitated. 

-C 286 > 


WENT ON STRIKE 


Then some one began to sing. Next moment 
the whole crowd was singing, with a deep 
volume of sound, like the sound of many 
waters— 

“Long to reign over us: 

“God save the King”— 

Over and over again, the band played the 
national melody. Over and over again, the 
crowd sang the familiar words, finding in 
them, at last, an outlet for all their pent-up 
passions— 

And then, suddenly, still singing with un¬ 
diminished fervour, slowly, and quietly, in 
marvellous order, as if they had been soldiers 
on parade, the people began to move away. 

The King climbed down from his perilous, 
windswept perch on the parapet, on to the 
balcony again. 

Then he turned, and passed through the 
shattered windows into the little room behind 
him— 

They had laid the Duke on the floor of the 
room. The tall, grey-haired physician stood 
at the dying statesman’s head. All that medi¬ 
cal skill could do to ease his passing had been 
done. Already he was far beyond the reach 
of any human aid. 

The brilliant summer sunshine shone full 
-C287> 


THE KING WHO 


on the familiar, formidable, massive features, 
deathly white, now. 

The eyes were closed. 

The King knelt down at the old statesman’s 
side. 

Some obscure instinct prompted him to 
take the old man’s hand—the hand which had 
done so much for him, the hand which had 
never failed him,—the hand which had saved 
him, from himself— 

The Duke responded to his touch. Feebly 
he returned his pressure. 

Then, slowly, he opened his eyes, luminous 
and clear even in death. 

He recognized the King. 

Faintly he smiled. 

Then his lips moved as if in speech. 

The King bent down over him. 

“God—save—the King,” the Duke mut¬ 
tered. 

No doubt, the singing of the crowd outside 
the palace had reached the dying man’s ears— 

The King did not speak. It seemed to him 
that there was no need for words. He felt 
that the Duke knew all his thoughts. He 
knew that the Duke was glad to have him, 
now, at the last, at his side. 

-C288> 


WENT ON STRIKE 

It was a strange moment of deep, and inti¬ 
mate communion between them— 

Strangest of all, there was no sadness in it, 
now, for the King. 

This man had done his work. This man 
had rounded off his life's work, with a com¬ 
pleteness, which it is given to few men to 
achieve. 

The lightning conductor had taken the full 
shock of the lightning flash, and then fallen. 

For the future, he—the King—would be 
alone. 

But that was a small matter, now— 

In the presence of this great man's tri- 
umphant self-sacrifice, any thought of self 
seemed irreverence— 

Some minutes passed. 

Then the Duke’s lips moved again— 

“We shall not all sleep—but we shall all be 
changed—in a moment, in the twinkling of 
an e y e —for the trumpet shall sound—and we 
shall be changed—” 

The King bowed his head— 

For this man, surely, all the trumpets would 
sound on the other side. For this man—they 
would crowd the battlements of Heaven to see 
him enter— 


-C289> 


THE KING WHO 


A little later, the physician touched the 
King on the shoulder. 

The King stood up. 

The physician bent down, and straightened 
the Duke’s arms. 

Then he turned, and faced the King. 

“It is finished, sir,” he said. 


-C2903- 









H 































































